Petruchio
by Garrae
Summary: AU. Season 3 post that kiss. No Josh. No Gina. He's tired of waiting for her to decide. He's going to decide for her. Very close to non-consent in places, so may have triggers. Please don't read if that upsets you. These characters belong to Andrew Marlowe. No infringement of copyright is intended.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Castle's at home in his study thinking about Beckett, like he does every night. It's not exactly a hardship.

He's wholly in love with her and it's been killing him to hold back. He's never had to wait before. But he's tired of waiting. And now he's kissed her (and she kissed him back) and he's sure that she's into him. She was really into him. So maybe there's a chance to move forward. He wants her _with_ him. Always. She's going to be his final one. And done.

He thinks that Beckett's hiding from him. All his observations of her tell him that there's another layer to the Beckett onion. Badass Detective Beckett needs unpeeled. Stripped. And he wants to be the one that does it. (In oh so many ways.)

He's always got what he wants, mostly through personality, charm, or physical attractiveness (he's ruggedly handsome, after all, everybody says so) and sometimes the application of money too. When he wants something, people give him it. Beckett's the only one who hasn't just conceded and given in straight away, falling for his wit and charm. (It's why he loves her) But now he's kissed her, and he wants her not just to see the friendly, happy (goofy, go on, think it, Castle) man-child she thinks he is but to show her that he's just as alpha as she is. Or more so.

He hasn't really let her see that side of him. She was surprised when he beat Lockwood to pulp (but Lockwood was going to _hurt_ Beckett, to _kill_ her, and that's not on). She tried to reassure him, explain it away. But it's there, it's part of him. How did she _think_ he got to be as successful as he is? You don't survive the sharks of the publishing industry if you can't hold your own.

It's not as if he hasn't imagined how it would be with her. The thought of cool, calm, controlled Detective Beckett, always in charge, first through the door with her gun out and high heels on, open and needy and definitely not in charge, in his bedroom, is turning him on. And if he's honest, he'd admit that right from the start he's wanted to know if, however much in charge she might be in the precinct, in bed she could be pliant, receptive, and _his_. That very first case, with her interrogating him, treating him like just another suspect, no respect for his fame, wealth, charm – he went home and dreamed about turning the tables. Imposing his authority rather than being imposed on.

Still, he doesn't want some stupid brainless trophy wife at home (but wife, definitely. Now. Now is good. Even if he's only kissed her once.) He wants the Beckett snap and snark and sparkle, the rolled eyes, the raised eyebrow, the challenge. He wants Detective Beckett all day. It's just that he wants another Beckett all night. Every night. Forever.

He looks back and builds the story, pieces together the evidence, leaning back in his study chair where all his inspiration comes. He needs to mock it up on his story board, but Beckett drops by reasonably frequently and he doesn't like the thought of explaining it. Far better just to show her. Explanations can wait till she's in the right frame of mind. And bed.

Review the chapters. Set out the background.

The first time he saved her life, leaning over her afterward and she _felt_ his mass looming over her, she expected to be kissed, but it wasn't the right time. The flash of realization in her eyes when she thought he'd _do something_ that she wasn't ready for. He felt her shiver when he whispered in her ear. He saw her look up at his mouth, part her lips. If he'd kissed her then…But catching Beckett needs a longer game.

That bondage case, with her little hints of knowledge (and maybe experience). It nearly broke him to hear her joking about flexibility (those _photos_ and she just looked at them and him and the boys and oh so casually told them it was perfectly possible) and discussing different makes of handcuffs and ordering him about. (He'll order her about, yes he will. And she'll _like_ it.)

The first time he pulled her to him and kissed her in a dark alley with a sleazy security guard to get past to save the boys. He pulled her hard against him and took her mouth and _owned_ her just for those minutes. And she _liked _it. She reacted when he was a little rough, a little forceful. _She kissed him back_. She won't admit it but he knows she's into him. She knows he's into her.

All the little tells and clues she doesn't know he's noticed (but that's his _job_, of course he's noticed, he notices everything about her) show him that there's a story here to uncover. But he doesn't think that she's told herself the story yet.

He thinks that maybe she needs a little persuasion, a little pressure. (He really wants to find out if she'll give in if he takes charge) So he's thinking that it's time for her to learn a bit more about him. He's thinking that it's time for him to dominate: a little, and then a little more than that.

Not always. Sometimes he might want her in charge (because that would be fun too). But often enough.

It's time to spin Beckett a bedtime story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He starts the next day. Let's begin slowly, set the scene, delineate the characters. Slow build-up of tension. Not too many changes, not too quickly. Wouldn't want your readers (_subjects)_ to see what's coming too early in the plot.

So he moves his chair just a little closer, leans a little nearer on the edge of the desk, stands a little closer in the elevator. Beckett catches him staring at her mouth (it's deliberate) and he flicks a glance up and down her button-down. She doesn't look impressed. When he does it again, with a little heat behind his gaze, a hint of memory, (_I know what turns you on, Beckett_) she shifts uncomfortably in her own seat and refuses to look at him again. Gotcha. She spends the rest of her day hiding behind a huge pile of paperwork. Game on. He's drawn her into the story.

* * *

Beckett's confused. Castle hasn't behaved like this since very early on. She likes having him around; she misses him when he's not there. And messing with his head is good fun. But then there's that scene she doesn't want to think about. (Because she'd have to admit to herself that being pulled in and kissed _hard_ and held tight so she couldn't have her own way made her really hot.)

And now Castle's making sure she knows that he remembers. That's not fair. Surely he knows she doesn't want to go there. She doesn't. She isn't going to talk about it. It never happened. And thinking about it every night in her sublet and wondering what would have happened if they hadn't needed to get in and rescue Ryan and Esposito and sometimes thinking about _what would have happened_ a little (or a lot) more than is good for her composure… is definitely not happening any more. So she pulls her paperwork closer (at least there's always paperwork) and resolutely does not look up. At all.

She gets up to leave with a mental sigh of relief and bites off a curse when Castle rises too. Can't he just leave her alone? She doesn't want to play. She wants a bath and some dinner and a relaxed night on her own. Maybe a good book. Not his. But Castle's trotting after her just like always – except he's not. This isn't the usual be-two-paces-behind-and-don't-get-in-my-way step that she's painstakingly taught him. This sounds like more of a – _prowl_? Huh? Her heels click down a little faster as she heads for the elevator, the cadence of her step humming _leave me alone_ with every beat.

* * *

Standing in the elevator, Castle's pretty satisfied with how the day has gone. He slides a fraction closer to Beckett and catches a glare.

"A little space here, Castle?" There's an edge to her words. She's irritated. Good. He doesn't move.

"Castle, move _over_."

And just as she might have realized that he won't, the elevator stops and he steps out. Saved by the beep. He doesn't want to move too fast. She is a detective, after all, and she might just turn all those detective skills on him. He's not confident that he can preserve the plan with Beckett on the case. He needs to lead her through each stage, walk her deeper into the woods with no breadcrumb trail to take her home again, get her so wound up she'll let him do what he wants and never think that each concession she makes takes her further and further in until she can't go back. Won't want to go back.

He realizes that whilst he's been momentarily planning her (their) future, she's click-clacked off, each heel tap echoing her stiff-backed, irked walk. Enough for today. He meanders home smirking.

* * *

Beckett's even more confused now than she was earlier. Castle stopped invading her personal space some time ago. (After a few applications of twisting fingernails to nose and ears.) Suddenly he seems to have gone right back to the way he was when he first invaded her nice, calm, collected life. He's ogled her all day and the look in his eyes said _I know what your mouth tastes like_. _I want to find out what the rest of you tastes like._

No. Absolutely not. It was a one-off mistake and it's not going to happen again. Not not not. Even if the memory makes her squirm and go damp.

She manages to march off. She isn't running away, she isn't, she isn't. She's just walking a little faster than usual. And thank Christ he isn't following.

She slips into her sublet, kicking off her shoes, and falls gratefully into her couch. She's tired and stressed and really does not want to think about the disaster the day became. She tries to clear her mind, pads through to the bathroom and starts the water running, drops in some scented oil. A nice long bath and some wine is just what she needs.

Some time later she hoists herself out the bath and into bed. She's forgotten to eat but it's too late now. The wine has made her pleasantly fuzzy and she's asleep in moments. Unfortunately the wine doesn't stop the dreams. Nothing has stopped the dreams. Not since _that scene_ that she won't think about. Or talk about. She's being pulled in, pinned down, held tightly, kissed, touched, stripped and opened. And then she wakes, hot, wet and bothered. Again.

There's nothing to do but get up and go to the precinct. (She won't give in to what her body wants. That would be conceding that there was more to _that scene_ than she's prepared to admit.) Maybe some very boring paperwork will help. Dry paperwork. Definitely _dry_. She's there and typing by seven. By the time Castle rolls in with coffee and bear claws she's back to almost normal and she's got her game face on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Castle bounces into the Twelfth with an expression that makes her want to hit him. He looks perfectly refreshed and no doubt, just to spite her, slept like the child he is. He's sitting far too close and every time she takes another sheet off the pile it's a struggle to avoid touching his hand.

When he's talking it's in this deeper, growly tone that makes her think of dark and heat and movement. It sends all her nerve endings to the surface and makes her blood warm. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. She fidgets and frets. She spends as much time deleting as she does inputting.

She's massively relieved when he wanders off to the break room to get coffee. She's even more relieved when a body drops and there's something new to distract her.

* * *

Castle spent the evening planning the next chapter of the Beckett story. He thinks that a little _accidental_ touching and crowding is indicated. He wants her hot and bothered. He sees her avoid touching him and her slightly frantic fidgeting. So when a body drops and they're on the way to the scene he manages to _accidentally_ brush a hand down her back. On the way back to the precinct he walks so close to her that he can stroke his fingers against her hip. And in the elevator he crowds against her (it's busy, so he can pretend he's just making room). He sees her swallow. He leans down and watches her eyes widen and then her lips part.

"What's wrong, Beckett? Are you hot?" He sees her get it. Her expression is half-glare half something that might be lust. He thinks, though, that if he touches her again he'll lose all the gains he's made today because she will certainly try to kill him. (But he wants to. Touch and stroke and kiss and press down and more.)

He spends the rest of the afternoon making sure she can see him undressing her with his eyes. Turn the tension up, keep them guessing. Mystery is all about misdirection, after all.

* * *

After three days of Castle crowding into her personal space enough to annoy but not enough to call out, spreading enough innuendo to fertilize Central Park without quite letting the boys catch on, Beckett is fed up. That's what she tells herself. Every time she steps into the elevator he slips a hand over her back, just low enough to push her buttons. Every time they walk he's close enough to brush against her. She's hyper aware of his size and mass, taut muscles that she knows could hold her still and press her down while… No. No. She doesn't want that. She's in control, always. She has to be.

She won't admit that all the accidental touching (she won't believe it's deliberate because then she'd have to decide what to do about it and it's easier not to think about how it makes her feel) is keeping her on edge throughout the day and forcing its way into her dreams at night. She doesn't know if she wants him to stop touching or start. And she's really, really irritated that he's making her feel like this, like he's in control. She's in charge. She has to be.

But when he asks her to come over to his loft after dinner she says yes. It'll give her a chance to tell him to stop whatever he's doing and go back to the comfortable, safe Castle she'd got used to. She refuses to listen to the little voice in her ear that says _what if he doesn't_? Or the even softer voice that says_ you'd like it if he didn't._

She can handle this. A drink at the loft, clear the air, everything back to normal by tomorrow. Simple. Right.

* * *

Castle's planning his next move. Getting Beckett bothered has succeeded very nicely. He knows that she's going to use the first opportunity where there isn't an audience to tell him to back off. She wants to be back in her safe little comfort zone where she doesn't have to confront her feelings. Or his feelings.

He likes that he's writing the story, even if she doesn't know it yet. He wonders idly how long it will take her to realize, whether he can keep her edgy and unknowing while he brings her to him, peels off the layers of authority, her steely self-control, her complete lack of reliance on anybody else.

Even on him. She barely leans on him even now, and it's always a surprise when she does. She doesn't like vulnerability. He wants her to lean on him, wants a partnership where she takes as well as gives. It's more complicated than just getting her to accept that she wants him, arousing and hugely enjoyable though that will be. It's about rebalancing their whole relationship. He doesn't want to be first through the door (come on, there are bad guys behind the door, and she's the cop with the gun), but he's tired of being always second, deferring to her sharp, quick orders at work and then watching her decide the route their relationship takes. Or doesn't, currently. Relationship_, _ha-ha. Barely. He wants to drive, not take the passenger seat. He wasn't in the passenger seat when he kissed her but she _won't talk about it_.

She never talks about it. She never talks about anything. He's amazed she told him about her mother. They've danced around their complicated _relationship_ since the day she hauled him in for questioning. He flirted and she snarked. She makes smart remarks and he's left hanging breathless. He's pushed and she's backed off, he's backed off a little and she's come a little closer, but he's getting nowhere fast. She's really interested (all those tells) but she won't move forward. He's not surprised she won't talk about it. If she talked she might actually have to tell herself the truth. Might have to admit that there's something to move forward on.

So he invites her over later on. No-one else is in the loft so he'll have a free hand to unpeel Beckett. To make her face the next step. To teach her about them.

It's going to be an interesting lesson.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Castle's showered and shaved and is putting the finishing touches out, red wine and glasses conveniently close to the couch, when Beckett raps on the door. She's still dressed for work, dress pants and button-down, high heels. He wonders if she realizes how much of that is a defense mechanism, to stop him having too much of a height advantage. He wonders if she realizes that she's trying to show him that this isn't anything special, that she doesn't need to make any effort. _Who are you hiding from, Beckett? Me, or you?_

"Hey Castle," she says coolly, holding out another bottle of wine. Well, at least she isn't starting by threatening him. Clearly she thinks that they can be civilized. That's a mistake. She's walked into his territory without a single qualm. She still doesn't get it. Controlled Detective Beckett, who spends her life and considerable abilities spotting clues and gaps and flaws and misdirection in every investigation, can't spot the story he's writing.

He thinks he's moving in the right direction. Beckett's been all wound up for days and she doesn't know how to deal with him any more. She's beginning to sound like she's ready to follow his plot line. He can see the very subtle signs of her arousal, the flush, the breathing, every time he's _accidentally_ touched her. He's more convinced than ever that she's going to _like_ him taking charge. (And maybe that's the way it can be, her in charge all day at the precinct and then him in charge all night: this strong woman utterly undone by him)

"Thanks," he says, putting the wine on the counter. "I put some out already, so it should be ready now." He's ready now. "It's over there." She sits on the couch just as he'd planned, tucked into a corner. Her body language is tight and defensive.

"Relax, Beckett. The wine won't bite you." But he might. Later. If she asks him nicely. When she begs.

He pours wine for both of them and hands hers to her, careful not to touch her fingers. She's equally careful not to touch him. _Ah, Beckett, just you wait. I'll touch you. Oh yes._

He sits at the other end of the couch and preserves a distance between them that's wide enough to let Beckett think that it's all okay.

Halfway down the bottle they've talked about the case that's just closed, Martha's show in Philadelphia, Alexis's three-week school trip to Europe. It doesn't seem to have registered with Beckett that if Martha's in Philly and Alexis on a school trip, she's alone with him in his loft without any possibility that they'll be interrupted.

She takes a deep breath. The wine's lowered her inhibitions a bit, she's been amused and sociable and her arms aren't folded over her chest any more. "So," she says. He raises an interrogative eyebrow. She puts the wine glass down. He picks his up and takes another sip, unobtrusively moving along the couch. "Why are you getting in my face so much this week?"

It's not her face he intends to be in. It's the rest of her life.

She's still talking, not looking at him. "It's creepy. Can you just back off a bit?"

"Why? Don't you like it?" He's pushing. He slides fractionally nearer.

"No_."_ But she's blushing. She's lying. Another few inches closer. She still hasn't noticed. He's in range.

"Really?" His smooth tone makes it clear he thinks she's prevaricating. "I don't think that's true. You liked it plenty in the alleyway." She looks up, shocked that he's almost on top of her. He looms over her, deliberately using his size to intimidate, smiling a little. He hears her breath catch and knows that it's working: that he's making her a little nervous, a little excited. She bites her lip. But then she dons her blank interrogation face and starts to pull back.

"I thought we could straighten this out like adults. That's the only reason I came. You're being a child. If you won't be reasonable, what's the point in being here? I'm going home." She starts to stand up.

He reaches for her and tugs her back down into his lap. "No," he purrs. "You're not going anywhere. _This_ is why you're here." And he pulls her hard against him, hand tangling in her hair to hold her mouth at the perfect angle, and kisses her.

He's using sheer size to trap her, and though he hasn't previously let her know, he's a lot stronger than she is and at close quarters he can prevent her doing anything he doesn't want her to. Right now, that means he can stop her moving, stop her escaping. He can pin her here on his lap and touch her as he pleases. But kissing will do for now. She wriggles frantically but he's got her cold and it only takes a second before her mouth opens under the demand of his tongue. It's just as good as the alley and she's making little noises and her mouth is soft and she's stopped pulling away and started leaning in. He loosens the arm wrapped round her and feathers his fingers over her ribs, sliding up to the edge of her bra. She squirms. He's lost in the sensations. He kisses down her neck. He's done what he wants, and she's wanted it too. Naturally, it's too good to last.

"What the hell are you doing?" He really shouldn't have moved off her mouth. For someone whose whole body felt pretty receptive half a second ago, Beckett does not sound happy. She's going to be a whole lot less happy in another instant.

"Really, Beckett, how have you got to your age without knowing what kissing is?" She makes a formless noise of fury. If he had to describe it, he'd call it a hiss. "Do I need to explain it, or shall I just show you again? It's a nice thing to do. I'm sure you'll like it."

"_Let go."_ She's nearly screaming at him. She tries to pull away.

"Uh-uh," he tuts. He tightens the arm around her till she's pressed against him. He traps her arms so she won't be able to hit him, because she looks like she's about to explode. He isn't averse to this more physical method of control. She doesn't get what she wants. She's going to find that she only gets what he thinks she should have. She has to learn to play nicely. He smiles, slowly.

* * *

Beckett can't believe it. That _bastard_. She tries to break his grip and is stunned to find she can't move so much as an inch. She's angrier than she's ever been with him (but under that she's something else. Something wilder.) and she's completely helpless to do anything about it.

"_Let_ _me go!_" she grits out, all taut fury and forceful voice. No-one _ever _disobeys her when she uses that tone. Until now. "This isn't funny, Castle. Stop screwing around. Let me go and I'll just go home and forget this ever happened."

Forget you kissed me. Forget that it's absolutely the best kiss she's ever had. And definitely forget that she's half a second away from collapsing into him and letting him do anything he wants. She can't be here. She has to get away. She tries to move but she's all wrapped up against him. (And it _isn't _what she wants. No.)

* * *

Like hell she's going home and _forgetting this ever happened_. The only place she's going, much, much later, is the bedroom. It's amusing to watch her try to get her own way. She's angry and irritated (it's so hot) and it's keeping her from analyzing why he's not playing her game.

* * *

"You're not achieving very much there, Beckett. Not that it isn't nice having you squirming in my lap, but it doesn't seem to be getting you very far. Is there something you want?" He's purring again. It makes her think of large, predatory cats. The sound hits straight between her legs without registering on her ears. Distilled syrup of sex, seeping under her skin and slinking through her bones. His voice is almost irresistible.

"Maybe I _should_ kiss you some more. You liked that." He turns her head to align her lips just where he wants them and bends his head till he's almost touching her. His words ghost across her lips and she realizes that her mouth is opening to him. She clamps her lips shut. She won't play. She just _won't_. She's not going to give in to some over-muscled playboy who got her here on false pretenses. Even if she was wide open to him a few minutes ago. Even if heat is pooling somewhere south of her navel. She really hopes he won't touch her because if he does she'll do anything he wants. She _can't _be this hot just from being held in place and ruthlessly kissed. She needs to be in control. But there's a nasty suspicion floating in what little mind she's still got that Castle pinning her in place is just the beginning. She can see something more than sex in his eyes.

He's still talking, deep, dark and suggestive.

"You liked it in the alley. You liked it just then. Does holding you tight do it for you, Beckett? I really think it does. If I kiss you again, you'll open your mouth for me just like you did then. You know you will, don't you? You'll make those sexy little noises and wriggle against me. Open up, Beckett."

His words are driving her wild. She won't react. But that voice, those words, the tight grip, are really, really doing it for her. How did he know? And then he kisses her again and his tongue is in her mouth and just like that she's completely incapable of argument and kissing him back.

**Author's note: A lot of people have commented on this chapter (thank you all, whether positive or negative). Please read the next one, if you feel you can, before deciding whether to give up.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Castle suddenly realizes just what he is doing and pulls back. He's behaving like the worst sort of party-circuit playboy and he's abruptly completely disgusted with himself. Bringing Beckett over for a drink and a little light flirting, even a bit of kissing, isn't the same as mauling her like some over-sexed adolescent at a frat party. He shouldn't have done this. He's got no excuse. He's gone far too far, far too fast, and he hasn't got Beckett's agreement to any of it. He lets go of her and backs away, desperately formulating apologies. He has really, really fucked up here.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was wholly wrong." He's retreating to the other end of the couch as fast as he can manage, leaving Beckett with a clear field to do whatever she wants. Including shoot him, if that's what she feels appropriate. He deserves it. He's never pushed any woman like that, ever. Force without mutual consent is not his thing.

Beckett looks at him, her eyes clear. He doesn't know what she'll do, although arrest is a serious possibility. It's up to her.

She's thinking hard, mind unclouded. Castle's clearly shocked himself, not to mention her. She hadn't thought that he could be like that. But. But he pulled back. But she liked it. But he's given her the choice. She can walk away from here, or she can decide to listen to what she wants. She's had enough of denying herself.

"Don't stop now, Castle," she breathes. "I want this..." She slides across and sits back in his lap. He starts kissing her again, hard and deep and rough. She opens her lips and pulls his head down.

He loosens his grip again, keeping his other hand at the back of her head so she can't get away from the kiss, and when she doesn't stop him he slides his arm lower so that his hand can curve around her. She's so slim it's no effort to spread his palm over her stomach, while his arm keeps her in place, and let his fingers trail south. He feels her tense, her breath catch. She's still kissing him. She's flushed and panting and her lips are wet and open.

"Don't stop what? Don't stop this?" He strokes just a fraction lower, where he can feel the edge of her panties through her pants. She tries to squirm, but he's holding her still again. _If that's the way you like it, Beckett, then that's how we'll play. If you don't want let move, you won't._ He undoes the button and zip. She's wriggling, trying to get closer. "You're squirming. You're enjoying it. If I slide my fingers further down, I'll find you wet for me, won't I? You want me to touch you and stroke you. We could have done this after I kissed you the first time, but you wouldn't talk about it." When he moves his hand inside the fabric of her pants she moans and rolls against him, trying to force his fingers further down.

She's enjoying it. He can feel her responding to the words, the bedroom voice. She might not know it yet, but she's his. It'll take her a while to realize it, but he's got the ending. He's got her. By the end of the night he'll have shown her why he should have her forever.

But she's off-balance, frustrated. He knows that if he touches her she'll be wet and hot and ready, and that it'll only take a few seconds for her to fall apart around him. He knows she's getting more excited, breathing harder (and he finds it difficult to believe how easy it was to get her there, how quickly she was turned on), and he calls on all his own control so he doesn't just rip their clothes off and take her right here, right now.

He takes his hand away and she whimpers as she arches her hips after it. It's the first sound of submission and it confirms everything she's just said and he's deduced about how she likes it. "Say it, Beckett. Say what you want me to do. _Talk about it._"

And then he waits.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

She can't think. She can't move. She can't do anything but feel. Hazily she hears him talking but she doesn't register anything but the persuasive tone, underlain by a note of command. She struggles to focus, coming back up through the fluff that used to be her brain. She's still sitting in his lap and he's got one hand in her hair and the other round her waist and he's, she's, very, very excited. Being pressed against him is not helping her at all. Mostly all she can get her head round is that she is desperate for him to do more. Touch more. Use his bulk to cover and dominate and take control.

She's embarrassed by the strength of her own desires. She squashes the fragile thought that says that maybe she can be herself with Castle, and tries to turn her head.

"Haven't you worked out _yet_ that you don't get to pull away from me without talking about it?" What? Does not compute, Castle. "Waiting for you to make some choices hasn't worked so now we're going to do things my way. That means talking, not running away." No. This isn't happening. Castle doesn't make decisions about them. Castle doesn't normally make any decisions beyond what's for lunch.

It's dimly occurring to her that she might have been wrong when she pigeon-holed Castle as a soft man-child with a penchant for annoying her and a nice line in crazy theories. Soft is the last thing he feels. She shakes her head to try to clear it. He pulls gently on her hair until she's looking up at him and then slips his hand round to clasp her chin in firm fingers. She feels the strength in his grip and wonders why she's never noticed that he's a big man, a powerful man. (_Because you never let yourself notice. Because now you have noticed you'll need to do something about how you feel about it._) She can't read his face. There's something she doesn't understand in his eyes.

The silence stretches out. Castle seems to be quite content to trace lazy circles on her stomach with his other hand, in wicked, delicate movements. Beckett forces herself to stillness, trying to think how this might play out.

"Relax, Beckett. You're very tense. Stop over-thinking, and talk to me." And just like that she remembers how he's just undone her and that her pants are loose and her panties wet. His bedroom voice is curling round her and the circles are spiraling lower and she's not still any more and desperately trying to remember her own name. "Just let go. I'll take care of you. I know what you want, what you need. You need someone else to take control. I'll take charge. Just let go. Tell me if you want to."

She can't get past the seductive words, the low, husky tone. His baritone vibrates through her where she's still tight against him. She tries to drop her head so he can't read in her eyes the truth about what he's doing to her, the truth of what she wants, but she can't because he's still holding her face, reading the story in her eyes. He's stopped drawing circles and is undoing the buttons of her shirt, grazing the heel of his hand gently across her breasts as he goes. He's too good at seduction and she's caught between his expertise and her own needs. He's articulated everything she's secretly been thinking. She says _yes_.

Castle is proceeding (there's a good word for a mystery writer) with caution. Even though Beckett is on his lap with her shirt and pants undone and an incredibly sexy lacy bra just begging him to touch it and she's absolutely ripe to be plucked, she's far too intelligent for him to _shoot too soon_. If she works out that he's looking for a permanent relationship she'll come back to consciousness from the cloud of sexual tension he's coated her in and then all her walls will go up and he'll have to start all over again when she's on the watch. And he may be bigger and stronger and able to bring her to hopeless arousal in moments by holding her tight and kissing her roughly but that won't help when she's got her gun and isn't in his arms. And if he mentions _permanent_, or possibly even _exclusive _or _dating_, that's exactly what's likely to happen.

He can't bear the thought that she might slip away from him again.

So he's seducing her with softly evocative words. She can't hide her face from him and it seems that she's lost all control of her expressions. Her game face is irretrievably gone. His words are pinning her down just as closely as his embrace. Words are his business and his life, and he's weaving them into a net she doesn't even see is trapping her. Every word he uses is weighed and measured to perfection to keep her under his spell. He's just told her how things will be in future and she hasn't consciously noticed. Her eyes tell him everything he needs to know about what she wants. She's curving into him, trying to get closer. He's got her.

"Say what you want me to do, Beckett," he repeats, softly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Please," she whispers. And it could be _please more _or _please don't stop_ or _please just take me now_. She doesn't know what she means any more, she just knows that she's going to allow him to do everything she's been dreaming about since early on. Everything she's admitted to herself she wanted since he kissed her in an alley. And then he kisses her again and she doesn't care. She's soft and pliant and open to him and he can do whatever he wants as long as he keeps kissing her. She tries to slide her hands out and up to his head, to pull him down to her. But she's still trapped, in a way that is making her feel unbelievably hot.

Castle's uncomfortably aware that he's wholly ready to strip her naked and spread her wide and just take her now and show her how good he can make her feel. He knows that she's ready too. But that won't get him the resolution he needs. She needs. Better to play a longer game. It's still early.

"That's a good girl, Beckett. That's right. Say please. Kiss me. This is what you want, isn't it?" He's talking in between nipping at her throat, moving down her neck to where her shirt is hanging open. She doesn't answer, just gasps. He lays her back on the couch and kisses down her body. He doesn't touch her breasts. He wonders how long he can do this, play with this soft, pliable kitten-Beckett, before she tries to make him touch her more…enthusiastically. Before she tries to take charge.

"Please," she breathes. She reaches for him to steer his mouth where she wants it. He takes evasive action and catches her hands in one of his to stop any further assaults. She whimpers unhappily and tugs but can't release her hands.

"You need to use your words, Beckett. You need to ask me." But even as he tells her what to do he's slipping a hand into the waist of her dress pants and loosening them over her hips. He edges a fingertip under the lace of her panties and smiles wolfishly when she squirms. Oh yeah. She's close to incoherent and he's barely begun.

He knows he has to hang on to his own control, or they'll both be naked on this couch and it'll all turn into a hot sweaty (wonderful) mess but then it'll be over and he's so worried that if she thinks it's just a quick one night stand then yet again she _won't talk about it_ afterward, and he'll have to start over. But it's so difficult. He's this close to everything he's ever wanted. Don't grab, Castle. You might miss the ring and lose the prize.

She's just so beautiful, halfway to undressed on his couch, in his loft, the whipcord muscle of her abdomen pale in the side lamps. He can't resist slipping her pants down, tracing the fine cut of her quads, legs that go on forever. They can go round him forever. He can see that she's damp. She's on her back and she isn't stopping him. Doesn't want to stop him. He'll just kiss her again, and slide a finger across her, and maybe…

And then her phone rings and suddenly it all goes to hell in a hurry.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Beckett's eyes snap open and the fog of sexuality clouding her head instantly disappears. She takes one comprehensive look at the scene and is off the couch while Castle's still recovering from the shock of the ringtone. Her pants and heels are back on and she's buttoning her shirt and her jacket's trailing as the door slams behind her. _What the hell just happened?_ How did a civilized drink after dinner to resolve an uncomfortable situation end up with her being thoroughly kissed and undressed and her moaning and squirming as if the only thing she needed was Castle's voice and words and body.

What had she been thinking of, allowing it? That was a huge mistake and she can't even blame Castle. He'd stepped back and given her every chance to leave. And she hadn't. She'd told him not to stop. She'd sat on his lap and pulled him into her. Oh God.

Just when had he worked out that deep inside she just wanted to give in to someone stronger? Let him – _someone_. A generalized _someone_. Not a specific _him_. Certainly not a playboy who's never committed to anything, who's only looking for a rebound relationship. Oh God. If he's seen that, what _else_ does he suspect about what she keeps locked down. He only broke up with Gina a few weeks ago. Oh God. This is a disaster. She has to get away from it.

She draws Detective Beckett-ness round her and pulls on her work persona with her jacket. By the time the cab's delivered her to the crime scene she's just about capable of coherent thought. Lanie's on the ground taking technical measurements and flashing _looks_ at Esposito, whose face looks pretty frozen. Ryan's interviewing a passer-by and very deliberately not getting between Lanie and Espo. Clearly someone else has had a … _difficult _… evening. Thankfully that's not her problem. She left her problem behind in a Tribeca loft.

Ryan trots up. "Hey Beckett, got a good one here. Looks like someone mugged him on the way out of that club" – he gestures vaguely leftward to a flashy neon sign – "took his wallet and ID and fled across the Park."

"And you got me out at this time _why? _Can't uniforms deal with a simple mugging these days?" If this is that easy why's she here? (And she isn't frustrated because she's been…interrupted. If anything that was lucky. It was. Really. Don't think about it. Concentrate on the corpse.)

Espo butts in. "There's some odd things. We thought it might be Beckett-flavored." He looks around. "Didn't you call Castle to come along? I think he'll like this one."

"No," Beckett snips out. "_I_ think we can manage without him."

Ryan, Esposito and Lanie all exchange a look which it is probably fortunate Beckett doesn't see. They're all thinking the same thing. Basically it's a combination of (Esposito) _oh Christ they're fighting again _and (Lanie) _can't they just get it on already because if they just fall into bed that would fix this_ and (Ryan) _tomorrow is going to be horrible because Beckett in a bad mood is everyone's worst nightmare and Castle will turn up and she'll be stressed and angry and we won't be able to do anything right _and (all of them) _I hate it when she's like this._

The body's taken away and Beckett snaps out orders to the boys to get started in the morning. When she leaves Ryan and Esposito look at each other and sigh. "Do you think we could get Montgomery to make her take her personal days? Tomorrow is going to be shit if she's like that."

"No chance, bro. When Beckett looks like that she doesn't listen to anyone. We'll be lucky if she leaves the precinct for the next week."

Ryan looks uncertain. He doesn't normally like to get involved but he's the only one in a relationship – well, something that anyone normal would actually understand is a relationship, as opposed to some complicated subtext that you need three doctorates, a hot kick-ass detective and a multi-millionaire mystery writer to interpret. "Javi," he says hesitantly. Esposito turns around from the car.

"What?"

"Do you think, well, um, well…"

"Just say it already."

"Er, Beckett looked a bit odd. Do you think something's really wrong? Like, more than just one of their fights? I mean, if Jenny and I have a fight it's nasty but Jenny doesn't go off with that sort of an expression."

"What sort of expression?"

"Well…" Ryan pauses and tries to think of the words. He's a good detective, intuitive, but this is a bit outside his comfort zone. Interpreting Beckett is (thank heavens) not his job. They all know that's Castle's specialty. A word he's never used floats into his head. "Ravaged. She looked like someone hit her." His thoughts flow a bit more easily. "She looked like she did back when Castle first tried to interfere in her mother's case. You remember, when that Feebie Sorensen got shot a year and some back?"

"Oh _shit_," bites Espo. That had been absolutely-fucking-dreadful. Beckett had buried herself in work and all she had said to them for weeks had been rapped orders to do this, interview that, find the other. They'd barely been out the elevator door in the morning when the next batch of instructions hit. No matter how early they got in, she'd been at her desk. She'd had no patience or tolerance. Every time someone slipped up she'd ripped them a new one. Their clear-up rate had been phenomenal but the atmosphere had been shit. Espo's sure that Beckett had slept on the break-room couch every night for weeks. She certainly didn't leave the Twelfth before them. He doesn't _know_ why, but he thinks it was so Castle couldn't get her alone. It didn't get better till the summer was over and Montgomery let Castle back in over Beckett's protests and somehow they patched themselves up. He doesn't reckon that Montgomery can pull that trick again. He doesn't reckon that Beckett will let Castle get back under her skin. Why can't the pair of them just fall into bed and screw each other's brains out like any normal couple?

"We can't go through that again," he says. "Are you sure she looked that bad?"

"Mmm." There's a pause. Ryan looks as if he wants to say something but he's not sure he likes the taste of the idea in his head. "We could call Castle."

"And say what? What have you done to Detective Beckett, you asshole? Don't bother turning up tomorrow because we're going to shoot you?"

"No, just…get his side of the story. Interview him. We're detectives, let's detect."

"Okay," agrees Esposito. "But if it all goes wrong this was your idea. Not mine. And if Beckett finds out we'll be toast."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Castle's sitting in the loft morosely finishing the wine and contemplating starting the full bottle of Scotch. He thinks he'll need most of it to sleep. It was all beginning to go just the way he planned, at least once he got his head out his own ass, and then the _fucking_ phone rang and…shit.

When the doorman calls up and says there's two detectives to see him he's tempted to have them blocked. He's absolutely no desire to talk to Ryan and Esposito. There's only one reason they're here and he's not in the mood to be oh-so-unsubtly threatened. Every time Beckett so much as looks sideways at him they get this _I'm going to kill you_ look. He doesn't need it. His phone beeps with a text message. _Let us up. Or we'll use our badges and come up anyway._ The hell with it. Maybe they'll help him drink the Scotch.

But much to his surprise they don't seem interested in threatening him. In fact, it dawns on him, they seem to want his help. They're worried about Beckett. So's he. Beckett left faster than a cat out of hell and from what the boys are saying, when she turned up at the crime scene she was so far off her game that everyone noticed.

It occurs to him that they don't know that Beckett was here, which is a considerable relief. It's always easier to bluff if the interrogator doesn't know you're lying. They're questioning him, but it's all coming from a standpoint of _do you know what might have upset Beckett? _Yes, but he's not discussing that with them. He looks convincingly blank. _Did you say something to upset her? _No, not at all. Rather the reverse. _Has __**she**__ found out something on her mother's case? Have __**you**__ found out something on her mother's case?_ He can quite honestly say no to both. He's found out something, she's found out something, but it's nothing to do with her mother. _Did you argue about something?_ No. No. There was no arguing involved. Not after the first five minutes. _Are you sure this isn't all your fault? _Um. It probably is. But since he doesn't want shot he preserves his best poker face.

Eventually Ryan and Esposito leave, grumbling. Castle leans back with the Scotch and tries to work out how he's going to fix this fuck-up. He can't get past _haul her back here, tie her to the bed and make her forget her own name_ or alternatively _tell her he loves her and she's going to marry him next week and never ever be allowed to run away from him again_. And as good as the first idea sounds (because try as he might he can't see the second one working) it probably isn't a viable plan. He'll be lucky if he gets within fifty yards of her, never mind close enough to talk her into a car and back to the loft. He thinks she's quite likely to shoot him first and ask questions later if he shows up at the precinct in the morning. And if she talks to the boys he'll be dead because Esposito will shoot him from three blocks away with a sniper rifle. He's still hamster-wheeling around the two alternatives when he falls asleep, aided by several glasses of single malt.

* * *

Beckett doesn't go back to her sublet. She buys a clean shirt and underwear from an all-night store and checks into a cheap hotel on the wrong side of town, turning her phone off. She doesn't want to take the slightest chance that Castle might turn up to carry on where they left off. And now she knows what he can do to her, what he knows about her, what he wants her to admit, she can't afford the risk. If he touches her like that again, she'll disintegrate. Beckett never loses control. If she does, she'll shatter.

She runs the shower barely short of scalding and scrubs every last inch of skin with the rough soap that's all the hotel provides. She spends so long in the shower that the hot water starts to run out. She collapses into the uncomfortable, narrow bed and sets her alarm for six. She hugs the thin pillow and wonders how it all went so wrong, so fast. She remembers the untranslatable look in Castle's eyes as he bent over her. She doesn't want to admit to herself that he looked at her as if she was the last drop of water in the desert. Finally, reluctantly, she falls asleep.

She dreams about the loft. Castle. Being kissed, and touched. In her dreams he's got total control and he's using it expertly. He's stroking her and his fingers slide and curl and she's begging to come and it feels so _right_. And when he finally says _yes_ she comes so hard she wakes up, soaked in sweat with her hands between her legs. Oh God. What has she done?

She gets up, showers again, and goes to the precinct. There's nothing else she can do. She can't face her own desires, and she's just run away from the one chance she's had to be with someone who embraced them.

Maybe Montgomery will approve her for a transfer to San Francisco or Seattle or Podunk, Ohio. Anywhere with a Homicide team and no millionaire mystery writers to fall in love with. Oh shit. Oh God. She doesn't mean that. But she knows that it's true.

* * *

By the time the boys show up at eight she's set up the murder board, populated it with the known facts, and has a list of everything she wants done by an hour ago. She leaves Ryan and Esposito to struggle through it and goes to the morgue. She doesn't want to be in the precinct. Ryan and Espo are sneaking nervous looks at her around their computers and she doesn't want to talk. They know that she knows that they know something's wrong. She just hopes that they've settled down when she gets back. She's no wish to be interrogated. Her head hurts.

The morgue is cool and Lanie, for a wonder, is only talking about the corpse. Hit over the head with a blunt object, identification of which will take a little longer. No other trauma. Maybe it really was just a mugging that went wrong. Uniforms are canvassing the area, searching dumpsters and interviewing the nightclub staff. Nothing to do till the boys have sorted through it all. Maybe Lanie doesn't want questions about her own night, so isn't giving Beckett an opportunity.

She calls Montgomery from just inside the morgue, where Lanie can't hear and then ask questions that she doesn't want to answer, and pleads a sick headache which isn't a hint of a lie. He tells her to go home and not come back till she can be useful, and through the pain and blurred vision (she isn't crying. She never cries. If she starts crying she might not stop.) she wonders if Ryan or Esposito has said something. She doesn't go home, but back to the cheap hotel where no-one's going to find her and make her confront…_things._ Two Advil later she's out cold with her phone off again. She wouldn't put it past Castle to ask the boys to track her using it. He's persistent when he's on to a mystery.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Back at the Twelfth Ryan and Esposito have put up all the new evidence on the murder board and are surveying it dismally. It's looking more and more like they called Beckett out for nothing last night. Lanie thinks that the weapon was a bit of pipe (that's _so_ not their sort of case) which the uniforms have just brought in for testing. When Montgomery tells them that they'll just have to work the case themselves because Beckett's gone sick on them and he's told her to go straight home from the morgue and not come back in till she's better, it's the last straw.

And then they realize that Castle hasn't shown up today either. Since the case isn't exactly interesting and the only other thing they've got is paperwork, they're ripe for any other sort of detecting. Speculating about the Beckett-Castle situation is always a good way to pass the time, and there's certainly plenty to speculate about if both of them are missing. Why, anything could be happening.

"Do you think Castle could have lied to us last night?"

"Nah. Castle can't lie to us." But then Esposito thinks about all those poker games and how Castle always wins unless Beckett does because none of them (except Beckett) can read him. He gets an evil smile. "Ryan. Let's go find Beckett. Something's up. I don't like that she's called in sick when there's a live case. 'Snot like her."

"Why not Castle? Why Beckett? She'll not be happy with us."

"We're her team. We need to make sure that she's got what she needs and isn't dying alone," he says in pious tones. Ryan quirks an eyebrow very much attempting the Beckett style and Espo adds, "Besides, we tried Castle last night and if we leave him to stew we might get something. You know he likes to talk, and if we ignore him maybe he'll spill 'cause he can't bear to keep his mouth shut. Anyway, I think there's a lot more to this story than we got told."

Ryan looks at him sceptically. "You're just bored, man. You've been spending too much time with Castle, and you're trying to write stories now. You want to be the next best-seller? Dream on."

"Nah, c'mon. Beckett's never ill. Gotta be something else."

They try Beckett's phone a couple of times but it goes straight to voicemail. Esposito runs an illicit check to try to find it but the last place he can get a location is in the Bronx and that seems somewhat unlikely. Nothing to do, if you're a pair of ..._concerned_...detectives, but go to Beckett's sublet and try to raise her. Or break in, if necessary. Esposito's sure he can still pick a lock if he has to. Old skills die hard. He's fairly sure that Beckett will forgive them when they explain how ...worried... they were. He hopes. Tweaking Beckett's tail can be a short route to a painful end. She's not shy of inflicting a little casual maiming when she thinks it's deserved.

* * *

Over at Beckett's apartment they tailgate in behind some resident by flashing their badges and go on up. Ryan points out that she hasn't picked her mail up. They exchange a look and carry on, a little faster than before, a little less teasing and a little more concerned.

"Why's she live in a block without an elevator?" Ryan huffs, halfway up.

"Think it's all she could get after the bomb. 'Snot like she would stay at Castle's forever."

"She should have," humphs Ryan. "That way I wouldn't be killing my knees climbing this staircase with an evens chance of getting shot by another cop at the end of it."

And now they're at Beckett's door. The hallway's dingy and the door a bit grimy and it's so very much not what either of them expect Beckett would live in. "Was she so keen to leave Castle's that she couldn't wait to get something better? If I'd been staying in Tribeca you'd've had to pry me out with a crowbar."

Esposito bangs on the door but there's no answer. He flicks a cop glance around and looks at the lock. "I don't hear anything. I think we better go in. She could be really sick. Need help. Could be an emergency." He pulls out a couple of stiff wires and furtively wiggles them in the lock. When the tumblers rattle he throws Ryan a satisfied grin and pushes open the door.

It's empty. Not a trace of a Beckett. The kitchen's clear, the place is tidy, the bed is neatly made. Apart from the stuffed bookshelves, her sublet gives away about as much of her personality as a puddle on any rainy Manhattan street. "This is not good," frets Ryan, frowning. "This is really not good at all."

"Man," mutters Esposito. "Does Beckett actually have a life outside the precinct?"

"I know where she could get one, right over in Tribeca," murmurs Ryan, and then says a bit louder, "Maybe she went to Castle's." Esposito looks at him like he's finally lost his marbles. "Well, she _might_ have. If it wasn't Castle that upset her then it's possible. Anyway, we ought to tell him she's sick so he doesn't come into the precinct for nothing. Can't stand him looking at her empty chair and whimpering."

* * *

Castle's got a hangover the like of which he hasn't had since he was a regular on the party circuit. When he peels open his eyelids the whole evening before unrolls in his thumping head and all he wants to do is pull the covers back over him and hope it will all go away. At least the latter half. He'll happily hang on to the visions of the earlier part. Still, he stumbles out of the (irritatingly empty) bed and into the shower, hoping that inspiration will strike and he can get _his_ Beckett back where she ought to be (under him in bed every night, for preference) with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of mutual pleasure.

The shower helps the hangover. Unfortunately, since it's warm, it doesn't help other things.

And then the doorman buzzes and it's Ryan and Esposito again and they come up and after a certain amount of _Castle you look like shit_ (thanks, boys) they tell him that Beckett's called in sick and when they went to her apartment it looked like she hadn't been there for a couple of days and, a good deal more menacingly than last night, _is there something you'd like to tell us, Castle_?

He's just constructing an answer which involves _we had a drink but then she left_ and definitely does not go anywhere near _and we were way past second base when you called and ruined it all_ when what they've said actually penetrates his brain and he just completely and utterly loses it.

"The hell you say," he bites. He's furious and terrified. She's run away again instead of _talking_ and he is _not having it._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Ryan and Espo are staring at him open-mouthed. This isn't a Castle they've ever seen. It's suddenly apparent that however easy-going and lazily relaxed he is round the precinct, however much they thought he just followed Beckett round like a lovesick puppy, whatever they thought they knew was the measure of the man, they were wrong. Whatever they thought was between Beckett and Castle, clearly they hadn't even scratched the surface of _it's complicated._

He's not yelling. He hasn't even raised his voice. But both of them would rather have been skinned alive by Beckett at her most sarcastic than be on the receiving end of Castle's fury right now.

"Where is she?"

"We don't know." That wasn't the right answer. Castle's face is frozen, suddenly he's looking a whole lot bigger and harder edged, his anger occupying the whole air space of his immense loft. Esposito remembers what Lockwood's face looked like after he was arrested and now he sees the Castle who did it. He'd found it hard to believe, before. He thinks, irrelevantly, that Lockwood's lucky still to be alive.

"Let me tell you how it's going to be," grits Castle dangerously. "You are going to get a fix on Beckett's phone and then you are going to tell me where she is."

Ryan's just stupid enough to ask "And then what?" before Espo can kick him to shut him up.

But Castle answers almost pleasantly. "And then I'm going to bring her back."

Oh. Esposito may not like subtext but that doesn't mean he can't spot trouble when he hears it. And something tells him that Castle doesn't mean that he's going to feed Beckett chicken soup and Advil till she recovers and then watch her go home.

Ryan, who clearly has no sense of self-preservation, pipes up again. "We already ran her phone. It's not on, and anyway its GPS is screwed. Last time it pinged off a tower it was over in the Bronx. She's dropped off the grid."

Castle speaks very slowly and carefully, biting each word off. "You are telling me that Beckett's called in sick during a live case and now she's disappeared? And you, _detectives_, can't find her when there's _obviously_ something seriously wrong? Is there anything _else_ you want to tell me?"

Esposito's never been a coward. He's ex-special forces. He's got medals. He's fought in live combat. But it takes everything he has to look Castle in the eyes and say "No. There's nothing else to tell you. But you'd better tell us the truth about last night, bro, 'cause the last time Beckett went off on one like this was when you messed with her mother's case. What's goin' on between you? You look like you spent the night with your head down a bottle and Beckett's disappeared. Spill, man."

* * *

Castle turns away and stares out the window, fists clenched by his sides. He's too angry and scared to speak. He's frightened of stopping being angry because then he'll have to process that Beckett's run away from him (them) again and she'll be rebuilding all her barriers and he just cannot handle losing her, losing everything. When he finds her he's going to bring her back with him and never, _ever,_ let her out of his sight again. He's going to turn her inside out and upside down and force her to confront her feelings. To talk about it. She's his and he's hers and _she had wanted him_ and he is sick and tired of her starting something and then running from it. _Not this time, Beckett. Not ever again. You can't run far or fast enough that I can't track you and bring you home. You're mine._

Behind him Ryan and Esposito are silent.

Castle makes a decision. He's still staring out over the street, speaking without looking at the detectives sitting in his living room. "It's none of your business what's between Beckett and me," he starts. "But Beckett came over last night." He stops. The next bit is definitely private. "She got mad and then you rang and she left." He stops again. His throat is tight. "You have to help me find her," he forces out eventually.

No-one speaks for a long, long moment. The boys are looking at each other, looking at Castle, looking at the floor. Everyone at the Twelfth knows that Castle wants Beckett, has always wanted Beckett, but this is way deeper than that. This is embarrassingly raw. He might as well have peeled his skin off and written _I love her_ in his own blood on the walls.

Finally Esposito stands up. "We'll find her for you, bro."

Ryan nods. "Whatever it takes."

* * *

Castle hears the boys leave and finally moves away from the window. He slumps down on the couch and tries to think. Where would she go? He'll give the boys till tonight and then he'll take matters into his own hands. He knows a man who can find people. He always knows a man. _But Beckett's a detective,_ a little voice says in his head. _Beckett knows how not to be found. _She'll have to go back to the precinct soon, he tells himself. Homicide is her life.

This wasn't how his story went. In his story the phone didn't ring and Beckett kept on accepting and responding and he touched and she touched and they had all night and in the morning she had completely handed herself over to him. And then they did the same again, tomorrow and the next tomorrow. All their tomorrows.

He dials her number and it goes straight to voicemail. He doesn't leave a message. He can't. There's nothing that he can say on the phone. Nothing. He has to say it to her when she's back here, in his arms. He doesn't know whether he'll kiss her or kill her or just throw her on the bed and show her why he's never going to let her go. Castle, completely lost without his Beckett. Funny how that goes. He wanted to be in control, and here he is on the back foot and depending on Ryan and Esposito to find her for him. He can't even control that. He dials her again and it's still straight to voicemail. Two hours later he's called her every three minutes and it hasn't rung out once.

This isn't how the story goes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Beckett wakes with a crick in her neck from the uncomfortable bed and the headache still drilling through her skull. It's late afternoon and she pops another couple of Advil before she turns her phone on. She's got forty five missed calls. Forty-two of them are from Castle. Two are from the boys. One is from Montgomery, who's left a message telling her not to come in for two days or he'll suspend her for a week to make sure she doesn't appear before she's fit for duty.

There are no other messages. She switches her phone off again and curls back into the bed. She can hear Castle's voice on continuous loop through her head. _I'll take care of you. I know what you want, what you need. I'll take charge. Just let go._

She can't remember when she last ate. She thinks it might be before she went to the loft. She isn't even undressed. She doesn't care. She just wants to go back to sleep and wake up to find it's all been a dream and everything's normal and she'll go to the precinct and Castle will bring coffee and bear claws and at the end of the day they'll go to their separate apartments. And she won't ever have to admit to herself what he does for her, what he could do for her, or that she had exactly what she wanted and she's tossed it like yesterday's trash.

She lies there, dry-eyed. She thinks she's broken. She thinks she's broken herself.

_I'll take care of you._

No-one takes care of her. Since her mother was killed and her dad drowned his grief in the bottle she can't rely on anyone but herself. Except that Castle brings her coffee and makes her eat and makes her laugh and makes life fun. Used to make life fun. But now she's spoilt it all. It was all right there in front of her and she's too much of an emotional coward, too good at self-sabotage, to take it.

_I'll take care of you._

She turns her face into the pillow and finally weeps till she's just another vacant lot for demolition. She wants Castle to hold her and kiss her and love her. But she's thrown that away. She falls into another exhausted sleep.

_I'll take care of you._

* * *

"Espo," hisses Ryan. "_Esposito! _We've got a ping on Beckett's phone!"

"Huh? Where?"

"Over in the Bronx again. What the hell is she doing there? Oh…shit. It's dropped." Ryan does some complicated cross-referencing and shows the results. "She's somewhere…here. That's the nearest mast. 'Bout a hundred yard radius. Let's see what there is. Stores, car park, crappy housing – Ah! Flophouse hotel. We've found her. Better tell Castle."

Esposito looks dubious. "Man. Are you sure that's a good idea?" Ryan opens his mouth, then closes it again. Esposito carries on. "Beckett's playing possum. Castle's gone psycho. Which of them do you think is more likely to rip us a new one if we get this wrong? We're in the middle here. This is a truly shit place to be."

"If it was me – I mean, if I was in Castle's shoes and Jenny had gone off like that – and I found that you knew where she was and didn't tell me – I wouldn't just kill you. I'd peel you slowly from the feet up. We've got to tell him. You heard him earlier. It's killing him. We're his friends."

"We're Beckett's friends too. We've known her longer. We owe her. I'm not sure that letting Castle know where she is is a good plan. He wasn't exactly normal about her earlier. If he hurts her again like he did on her mom's case... I'm not gonna let that happen, Ryan."

"Espo, get real. He's not going to hurt her. But she's hurting him. Beckett needs Castle. He's the only thing that's keeping her half-sane - if he hadn't showed up when he did, she'd be well towards Bellevue. You know what she was like before Tisdale, on her mom's case every chance she got, sleeping here half the time, she was heading for breakdown. We all know it. That's why Montgomery let him in. Just because she says _it's complicated_ a lot doesn't mean we have to listen. She's the only person in the precinct who hasn't worked out that she should get with him for real, 'stead of dancing round each other." He takes a deep breath and decides. "We have to tell him."

Ryan picks up his phone and dials. "Castle. Hey man. We think we've found her."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Thank you to everyone who has read and especially if you reviewed. I would answer reviews but very often that would give away the next bit. And I'm sure you wouldn't want that.**

* * *

Castle looks up at the seedy hotel in the early evening light and takes a breath. He's waiting for the boys. He's going to need their badges to get in. He still doesn't know exactly what he's going to do when he gets in there. But he's going to need them to cover for him when he takes Beckett out, because without their badges and a few careful lies about _wanted for interrogation_, someone's likely to call it in. His car is round the corner, where she won't spot it no matter where her room is. She's not going to get another chance to run away without talking. He resolutely does not think about the risk that she might not be there. He doesn't think about the equal risk that this could ruin everything. He just wants to get her somewhere to resolve this. _Please let me take care of you. Please let me love you.  
_

Ryan and Espo are only a few minutes behind him but that's enough for Castle to be irrationally angry all over again. He sets out the plan in a few sharp, clipped sentences. They go in, get the room number and key by any means necessary, and he goes up alone. The boys are to wait in the lobby and tell any lies they need to about why he's marching Beckett out. If anyone asks, she's under arrest. If Beckett comes out without him they are to stop her outside by any means short of shooting. They are not to query anything he says or does. When he's got Beckett out the way they are to search the room, pick up everything she's left, and then go back to whatever they were doing. He's going to take her out of New York for a while, she'll be okay. Don't call. They look at him dumbly and nod. He takes a set of cuffs and a key from Ryan, who doesn't dare protest. He thinks he's really scared them. He doesn't care. He'll make it up to them when he's got his Beckett back home and sorted this out so that she never leaves him this scared again.

The sleazy proprietor isn't interested in anything except getting obvious cops out the lobby. He's only too happy to co-operate and when Castle produces a picture of Beckett that he keeps in his phone he nods and tells them everything about when she came and which room she's in and he hasn't seen her all day though he's sure a chick that hot has found something to keep her busy but here's the master key if they need to interrupt. Castle goes white about the lips and knuckles and the proprietor suddenly decides to be occupied a goodly distance away.

* * *

He goes up the dirty stairwell as quietly as a big man can manage. When he gets to Beckett's room he listens carefully at the door for any indications of where she might be. He'll only get one chance to do this. In open hand-to-hand he doesn't have a hope in hell of making this work. Beckett will go through him like mincemeat and he can't rely on the boys to stop her. If she's there. He can't deal with it if she's not there.

He can't hear anything definite. He slides the keycard in as silently as possible and cracks the door. All he can see is shadows. He slips inside and closes the door quietly behind him.

As his eyes adjust to the dim light he can just pick out a heap on the bed. He almost explodes with relief as he realizes it's Beckett. She's asleep, fully clothed, shoes still on. He pads closer and stands over her, gazing down to make sure she's real. But then the relief that he's found her safe is so great that his emotions go straight past relief into furious that she's done this to him, to them, and he thumps down on the bed next to her and has her hands cuffed behind her back before she's even awake.

* * *

Beckett's jerked up and reflexively tries to bring her hands up in self-defense. Someone's on the bed next to her hoisting her up by the shoulders and she can feel metal round her wrists. She opens her mouth and a big hand is clapped over it.

"Don't say anything, Beckett."

What?

"I don't want to hear a single sound from you till we're somewhere that you actually _talk _to me."

It sounds like…Castle? What's he doing here? Why's she got police cuffs on? She doesn't like this dream. She's hauled to her feet. It's not a dream.

"You're coming with me. If you do anything at all except walk to my car in complete silence I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you."

If this is Castle, he doesn't sound like anything she's ever heard before. He sounds angry and terrified and hurting all at once. She tries to twist to see his face but he's behind her gripping her arm nearly hard enough to bruise and forcing her to walk out and down the stairs. She's propelled through the lobby so fast she almost doesn't spot Ryan and Esposito standing like whipped puppies by the door.

* * *

Ryan says faintly "Shit, man. What the hell?"

Esposito just watches, dumbfounded.

It's not till they are back in their car that Ryan realizes that Castle's not given back the cuffs. He's not sure how they're going to explain to Montgomery that the Mayor's pet mystery writer has effectively kidnapped Montgomery's best detective (in handcuffs!) and that it's an even bet whether they next see her with a ring on her left hand or floating in the East River. On balance, he thinks that it'll be safer not to explain anything.

"Well," whistles Esposito, "_that_ was weird." Weird's not the word Ryan was thinking of. Unbelievable just about covers it. "Did you see him? And she just… And he marched her out in cuffs!"

"Yes," replies Ryan. "But he didn't look happy with her. And she looked completely checked out. She wasn't even arguing."

"Right. Man, I hope Castle knows what he's doing. When Beckett gets her mojo back he's going to need more than just a bullet-proof vest. If I was him I'd be running."

"If you were him Beckett would have turned you into kitty-litter and donated you to the dog pound. Seeing as it's not you, maybe she'll finally realize what the rest of us have known since he first showed up and just hook up with him."

"Yeah. Shit, I never thought that he was like that. I had a staff sergeant once that could eat cold steel for breakfast and never wince, but I'd rather've been chewed out for a month by him than tell Castle "no" today."

They go up and search the room, clearing Beckett's gun, phone and purse. "Shit," says Esposito, "this is a dive. What was Beckett thinking of? It's barely clean."

"Well," notes Ryan wryly, "maybe she wanted to be somewhere she wouldn't be interrupted. Wouldn't've worked at her apartment, now, would it?"

"Didn't work here either. Hey, Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna bet on whether Beckett comes back hooked up with Castle or as the perp in his murder?"

"Nah. She won't kill him. But only because she doesn't wanna go to jail."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Castle thrusts her into the passenger seat of the car. Her hands are still cuffed behind her. He gets in himself, undoes the cuffs, locks her seat belt on and takes off like a bat out of hell. He hasn't said a single word.

She can't look at him. The single sidelong glance she got didn't show her anything that looks like the Castle she knows. His face could have been Mount Rushmore for all the expression she could see. She turns away and stares blankly out the window. That way he can't see her own devastated face. They're not taking a route that she'd expect but she can't make the effort to care. He's so angry with her and now he's taking her somewhere to tell her they're over. She's so tired. She's been scraped down to a blank palimpsest. He won't be writing her story any more.

* * *

Castle is concentrating on the power of the engine under his hands. He's still so incandescently angry (because she scared him so much) that he doesn't dare speak because he'll say too much. Or not enough. He's heading for the house in the Hamptons. It's isolated and quiet and there is no way to leave without a car. And he won't be leaving the keys anywhere Beckett can even think of taking them. How could she trade him, everything he can give her, for hiding in a cheap dirty hotel in the Bronx? If she doesn't love him - there's a bite in his chest - then she has to say so. He's going to keep her in the Hamptons till she _talks about it_. He gets clear of the city and puts his foot down.

A long span of silence later there's a thin, drained voice from beside him. "Can you pull in, please. I need a restroom." Castle takes the off-ramp to the next gas station and parks up as close to the door as he can get. He undoes the seat belt and comes round to open the door. He helps her out the car, holding the cuff of her shirt in case she's about to try something stupid, like run. He doesn't touch her skin, because if he does he'll throw her back in the car and fall on top of her and… he doesn't want to be that man.

He walks her round to the restrooms, leans his whole bulk against the wall and says in an I-don't-trust-you tone "I'll wait here." Beckett just enters without any response at all. He waits for the flush and the noise of the dryer and when it takes longer than he expects he's scared-angry-terrified all over again. So when she comes out he can't stop himself and he grabs her into his arms and tilts her head up against his shoulder and holds her fiercely and possessively.

Somewhere in the background he hears a truck pulling up to the station and it brings him back just enough to realize that this isn't the way he wants the story to go. He isn't going to start kissing her standing up against some gas station's back wall in the dirt and the smell of none-too-clean restrooms. He's got control. He's got game. Really he has. He wants to kiss Beckett, but this isn't Beckett. It's some pale wraith with Beckett's face. So he stops and just holds her gently till he's able to walk straight and then he puts her back in the car.

He still doesn't trust her not to leave again and call for a ride back to the city, but he has to take the chance. He tells her that he's going to the restroom and then they'll carry on. When he looks at her all he sees is numb acceptance. There's no Beckett in this drained and empty thing. She's checked out.

He finishes quickly and turns back on to the road east, submerging himself in the feel of the steering through the curves, the shift of the gears, the speed, his total control of the leashed power under the hood. It's helping him calm down. He can feel Beckett white and silent in the passenger seat. As his anger drains away, while the city recedes further and further behind him and the chance that Beckett can run away again diminishes with every passing mile toward the Hamptons, he begins to worry about her.

He's not a man much given to self-doubt, but he's been more than a little high-handed since Beckett's phone rang, and he supposes it's possible that he's gone several steps beyond too far. But what else was he supposed to do? How else was he to get her back, show her how much it means?

If she won't come round after he's given it his best shot, talked to her, given her the choice, with very definitely no phones to interrupt and no way for her to avoid him then…Well. Then at least he'll know where he stands. The thought gives him another sore place in his chest.

He bolsters his confidence with the memory of how she was in the loft before the phone rang and repeats over and over to himself that everything will be okay, while the big car growls its way through the miles. By the time they turn off he's left his anger behind in the dust of the road.

_I'll take care of you, Beckett. Just let go._

* * *

Beckett watches wanly out the side window as the road rolls by. She supposes she should ask where they're going, but what does it matter? She can read the ending of this story. Wherever they end up, all that's going to happen is that she's going to let Castle have what he wants, take a pity fuck from him, let him show her all night long what she could have had, and then he's going to leave her. He might as well have fucked her up against the restroom wall and dropped her at the nearest Greyhound stop to go back to New York.

A slow tear pools and trickles down her face. She doesn't make a sound. She doesn't move. She just watches the verge go by as the tear dries.

"We're here," Castle says at last. Wherever "here" is. The car slows and turns up a nondescript track, low suspension bumping over the ruts. They swing into a wide driveway and Castle stops the car in front of a small mansion. She can hear the sea. This must be Castle's summer house in the Hamptons.

He leans across and undoes the seatbelt. His large hand is gentle. "Beckett," he murmurs. "Don't try to run away again. Please." She won't. She's too hollowed out to run, and she doesn't know where to go anyway.

Getting out the car she stumbles and he's immediately there to catch her. He's so terrifyingly self-controlled, so careful as he steers her to the door. She doesn't get it. If this is a one-night-stand, a quick fuck and then goodbye (it's all she expects), then why doesn't he just get on with it? She could be home by morning. And nobody will ever need to know anything about it. She'll get on with the rest of her life and never think about what could have been.

She's maneuvered into a large, warm-toned bedroom and pointed in the direction of a bathroom. "Why don't you get cleaned up? There are some of Alexis's bath things in there and a robe. When you're done, come back through and I'll have found something for us to eat." She follows instructions. It's easier than thinking. And while she's half-lying in a warm bath smelling of some lavender-scented mixture she doesn't have to feel anything.

* * *

Castle's found pasta and wine by the time Beckett reappears, wrapped in one of Alexis's fluffier robes. She looks pink and clean and somehow more _Kate_ than _Beckett_, and he draws an inward breath of relief. Maybe he hasn't ruined it yet.

He dishes up food and pours the wine. They eat in a slightly strained silence, Castle's watching Beckett but Beckett's only watching her plate. There's a lot of unspoken words floating just above the table, waiting for someone to speak. But Beckett doesn't talk about things. Beckett just runs away from them. She eats far less than half of what he's put out and sips her wine slowly and he sees that she is just so utterly drained that there's no point in starting any discussion now.

"Beckett. _Beckett_. You're exhausted. Go back through and go to sleep. It's late." There's an ulterior motive, of course. Back through is his room. And he's got no intention of sleeping on the couch. She droops off, the few minutes of reassuring Beckett-ness draining away, and he's sure that in ten minutes you wouldn't be able to wake her with a rocket. Which is just as well, because he's going to go into town to get her some clothes from a convenience store (it's the best he can do till tomorrow) and then he's going to crawl into bed next to her and at least then when he wakes up he'll know she'll still be there.

_I'll take care of you, Kate._

His story's back on track.

* * *

The convenience store yields basic cotton underwear, T-shirts and a wraparound skirt. Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll come back and buy her designer lingerie, and stylish outer clothes that hide it from everyone but him.

When he gets home he finds that she's borrowed a T-shirt and panties that Alexis must have left and is buried under the comforter curled up in the tightest, most defensive position imaginable. He washes and shaves, puts on pajama pants and slips in behind her. Even that small touch is almost more than he can bear. She's pulled back when he tried to go forward so many times and now he's brought her here and it's make or break. He won't let it be _break_. He'll convince her. He puts a possessive arm around her and cuddles in. Sleep takes a long time to arrive, while he stares into the darkness and plans how the story will go.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Beckett wakes before it's light. She's warm and there's a comforting weight round her midriff. She sighs contentedly until consciousness gradually flows in, bringing back the memories of the last couple of days. She tenses, all the good that a full night's sleep has done falling away. She's in the Hamptons, at Castle's place. She went to his loft to talk and then he kissed her (and more) and then her phone rang and gave her the chance to run away rather than admitting what she wants and then he somehow found her and marched her off and brought her here and she's never seen him so angry and even if he didn't kill her last night then it's all going to end this morning.

She doesn't understand why there's a heaviness round her waist, but that's a problem for later. Right now, she needs to get up and get her game face on to meet the inevitable. Detective Beckett is a big girl and big girls don't cry. She rolls toward the edge of the bed. There's a sleepy mumble of _no_ from behind her and the weight at her middle pulls her back in.

And then realization dawns that she's in bed with Castle (how did _that_ happen?) and his arm is the weight that's holding her and the warmth behind her is a wide, muscular and very naked chest and all she's wearing is a thin T-shirt that's a little too short and plain cotton panties that are suddenly a little too damp. She remembers his frozen, furious face yesterday. And now here she is all tucked against him and the whole damn mess is about to kick off. She stays turned away. She doesn't want to see his face, the anger, the ending that's surely written in his eyes.

"Just stay put, Beckett. Stop fighting. No-one's going anywhere. Go back to sleep." It's a soft baritone rumble against her neck, his breath tickling the short hairs at her nape. His arm tightens round her and it's clear that she isn't going to be able to move far. She closes her eyes and accepts the warmth. His familiar cologne smell is gentle and comforting and so exactly what she needs right now that her tension starts to seep away. She dozes for a while.

When she wakes again Castle's rolled over in his sleep and she can hear him snoring quietly. There's nothing to keep her in place. She slides surreptitiously out of bed, retrieves the robe she wore last night and goes back out to the kitchen. She can't see his car keys and anyway she might be a coward but she's not a thief. There's no taxi numbers, no local phone book, no way to dial a ride. She'll just have to sit it out and wait for Castle to tell her that whatever they didn't have is over and throw her out.

She goes out the back door to the very end of the decking that runs down to the beach and pulls the robe around her against the early morning chill. She brings her knees up and leans her chin on them, wrapping her arms around her bent legs, staring out over the Atlantic, looking at the vast expanse of nothing for as far as she can see. It's as cold and wide and empty as the rest of her life. She's not crying. It's just the sting of the salt wind off the sea.

She sits there on the deck and thinks about nothing while the sun rises higher. She's lost control of her life and just as she predicted she's broken. Shattered.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Castle is anything but a morning person, especially when he's spent a large part of the night planning out a story. So he doesn't find it surprising that he'd only woken briefly to wrap himself round Beckett, stopping her trying to wriggle away, before the sun was even up. She had fitted perfectly into his arms and against him. He liked it, wants to sleep like this every night. She belongs right there next to him, snuggled into _his_ arms in _his_ bed in _his_ house. _His_ Beckett. Please let her feel the same.

The sun leaks in through a gap in the curtain and wakes him. Something's missing. Something important. He pats around him and realizes that yet again he's alone in his bed. She's gone again. There's a tightness in his chest and a heavy lump in his throat. But then he sees the clothes lying on the floor and realizes she can't have gone very far. He makes his way out the bedroom and feels a draught from the kitchen. The back door's swinging open and he can see a small hunched figure almost as far away from the house as the decking goes. He can safely leave her there for now: there's no way off the back of his property without a boat.

He makes coffee and finds some frozen bagels, sets them to warm through. He'll take anyone's bet that Beckett hasn't eaten since she last left her sublet. She needs him to remind her to eat, sleep, live. He hasn't forgotten the end-game, but right now he'll settle for just getting any flavor of Beckett back instead of this dead-eyed empty woman. He'll deal with everything else later.

_I'll take care of you. Please let me take care of you. I love you. _

He goes out onto the decking to tell Beckett breakfast's ready. He doesn't make any secret of his approach, but she doesn't turn her head even when he's practically on top of her. When he puts a hand on her shoulder she flinches and shrinks even smaller into herself. He steps to the front of her, squats down and raises her face with a finger under her chin. When he scrapes her hair away behind her ears, her eyes are empty and her face reminds him of the inmates of an animal rescue shelter he went to once, each of them waiting for, resigned to, the next blow. He thinks she's been crying, but he doesn't understand why. Doesn't she see why he's brought her here? He never brings anyone but family here.

"Beckett, come inside," he says gently. She looks up at him with dead eyes and shakes her head.

"Don't bother, Castle. I know what this is about. You don't need to make it civilized over coffee. Just say what you have to and then I'll get out your life. You needn't worry that I'm going to turn into one of your clingy exes once you've walked away. Let's have one quick fuck as a souvenir and be done." She jerks her head away and turns her back.

He can't believe what she's just said. He emits an exasperated sigh as he stands up and she flinches away from him again.

It's all so very far away from what he imagined. In his mental story-writing last night, fired by the warm reality of Beckett snuggled against him, he thought that when he woke up she'd let him kiss her and tease her and heat her up and start exploring all the interesting possibilities that he'd had confirmed in his loft. Instead she's expecting him to throw her out and she's been outside crying (she _never_ cries) for what might be hours and any good he'd imagined that cuddling up to her last night might have done has all gone to shit again. There's only one thing he can think of to do that doesn't involve shaking her till she's dizzy.

She opens her mouth to say _Don't make this any worse _when he pulls her up and round to face him and tugs her in against him and kisses her fiercely. It's a kiss that says _mine_ as he takes possession of her mouth and presses one big hand over her back so that she can't escape the feel of him, hot and hard and heavy, pressed tightly against her.

"You're not getting away from me, Beckett. You're never going to run away again. You're mine. Get used to it."

He scoops her up like she's a little child and carries her inside, collapsing both of them into a large couch in the main room. He holds her close against his chest, arms just tight enough to be reassuring rather than sexual, and tucks her head against his wide shoulder. He drops occasional gentle kisses on her hair, murmuring meaningless soothing platitudes, in the way he used to with a much younger Alexis weeping over some minor broken-doll tragedy. He can sit like this as long as it takes. He'll take care of her. Forever.

When her body goes limp and her head slumps he realizes she's fallen asleep. He stands up carefully with her still in his arms and carries her back to his bed, lays her down and tucks her in. He watches for a moment to check she's still asleep and then draws the curtains, closes the door partway. He's got a call to make.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Esposito and Ryan are arguing about the dead mugging victim when Montgomery summons them sharply into his office.

"Detectives Ryan and Esposito, am I the Captain of this precinct?"

"Yessir," they reply in unison. What's this about?

"Then why, detectives, have I only just found out that my best detective fell off the grid? Don't I need to know about these things? Wasn't it worth reporting to me that Beckett disobeyed orders and didn't go home after she called in sick? Who runs this precinct?"

Oh shit.

"So. Now that _someone_ has bothered to tell me there's a problem, why don't you two detectives" – it sounds like _assholes _– "fill in the petty details you didn't see fit to bother me with. What is going on here? And before you get the idea that you can miss out some of it, you better know that I just got a call from Castle."

Double shit. They are so dead.

Under Montgomery's gimlet stare they choke out parts of the story.

"So let me see if I've got this straight so far. Beckett turns up at a late night murder scene looking like hell, is here before dawn the next day, calls in sick, – how and why exactly did you think it necessary to check up on her? – then you two and Castle find her – again, _how_ exactly - in some flophouse in the Bronx several hours later. And then I get a call from Castle ten minutes ago – which, by the way, was remarkably short of detail - to say that Beckett's with him and it's all okay but she needs a week to recover. But he's lying. I know he's lying because Beckett's never taken a week's leave in her entire career, and if Beckett was okay she'd be right there at that desk solving murders. So I've put Beckett on a week's leave since clearly something's up, but if you don't tell me every last detail you'll both be suspended for a month and then I'll bust you back to Uniforms to go digging in Dumpsters. _Where_ is my top detective and what the _fuck _is going on."

Treble shit. Busted.

When they finish explaining, stammering through how and why and _never seen Castle like that_ laced with _never seen Beckett like that _and finishing with _but we don't know where he took her_, Montgomery stares at them like they've landed from Mars. "You should have told me," he says. "This is my precinct. Beckett's my responsibility." He shakes his head. "That boy better know what he's doing, 'cause if he don't bring Beckett back intact I'll shoot him myself. Now you two get out my office and go solve that mugging. I don't want to see you till you haul the perp in. Oh, and Ryan?"

"Yes?"

"Next time you let a non-cop use your handcuffs I'll ram them up your ass till they choke you. Now get!"

They trail out dejectedly.

"That could have gone better."

"Yes. Better if it had never gone down at all. How did we get into this?"

"It's complicated," grins Ryan ruefully. Esposito snickers.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

When Beckett wakes it's to the dim light of evening and she's alone in the same big bed she woke up in this morning. She can hear the regular tap-tap-tap of a keyboard and she guesses that Castle's writing. She eases over on to her other side, searching for answers in the confused mess that's currently doing duty as her brain.

Now she's slept properly, for the first time in days a measure of Beckett-ness returns and she starts to apply some focus to the situation. She's ashamed of what she said – clearly she'd drawn the wrong conclusions from the evidence - but she can't link what she heard with the facts she knows. Millionaire playboy writers don't want Homicide cops. And sensible, calm, collected Homicide cops shouldn't want millionaire playboy writers, however sexy they are and however clear it is that they really, really know how to turn her on. She twists uncomfortably on the smooth sheets. Whatever else happens, she'll need to apologize for what she said. She sits up against the pillows, trying to gather the right words. Before she's found them, Castle's looming in the doorframe, looking relieved and pleased and just a bit hungry as his eyes slide over Alexis's too-tight T-shirt. And just like that it could be any normal day at the Twelfth with Castle annoying her so she snaps "Castle! Eyes up here!" just like she always has and he starts and brings his gaze up to her face not her chest.

He acquires a predatory grin and Beckett is immediately rather too aware that she's in his bed and Castle's looking very large and come to think of it isn't that expression exactly the same one he wore when he stopped her leaving the loft by kissing her and this whole story started to unfold?

And then he's off the doorframe and on the bed and kissing her and thinking goes right out the window in favor of pulling him against her. Maybe she still has a chance to make this work.

* * *

Detective Beckett's back. It's the first thing that crosses his mind when he sees her leaning back against the pillows with her brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled and chewing her bottom lip like she does when she's solving homicides. She looks deliciously edible and warm and that shirt of Alexis's is really a little too small over her –

"Castle! Eyes up here!" He reflexively jerks up to her face and it must really be her, she's really back – and _she's in his bed_. His expression moves from relief to covetous in instants and he can see her eyes widen and go dark as he comes across the room.

He falls on to the bed beside her and bends over, one hand on each side of her face as he kisses her. And by some minor miracle that he probably doesn't deserve after the way he screwed this up last time she's opening under him and kissing him back and her hands slide round his neck to tug him toward her and he's pulled off step number one: get any Beckett back. There really is a God. He knows what she likes now, so he stops for just long enough to remove her hands, take them in his own large palm and hold them above her head, just enough pressure that she knows she can't pull away. She rolls against him, her body telling him _more._

When he pulls back she makes an inadvertent disappointed little noise and it's all he can do to resist it. She's all mussed against the pillows and he really, really wants to carry on down her throat and along the prominence of her collarbone and… But. But trying to move too fast spooked her last time and even if he _knows_ that deep down she wants someone else (_him_) to take the lead he isn't ever going to go through the last two days again. Easy, Castle. Down boy. Softly, softly, catchee Beckett.

"So," he says happily. "Dinner?"

* * *

Dinner? What happened to kissing her?

He's talking again.

"I got you some clean clothes – nothing spectacular – but I thought you'd want to be able to put on something fresh after…" He trails off.

She doesn't want to go there. "Thank you," she smiles. "That was really…sweet."

Apparently there's a diner not too far back towards the town where they can get easy food and no glitz. Beckett showers, borrows a slick of Alexis's left-behind mascara, and dons the clean clothes with no little relief. Castle throws the discards into the washer as they leave.

Outside Beckett automatically heads for the driver's side of Castle's Ferrari, till an attention-getting cough stops her and she sees Castle holding open the passenger door. "_My_ car, Beckett. _I_ drive." She looks longingly at the wheel but comes around to take shotgun. When the motor growls into life and the top folds down she gives a murmur of pleasure. She loves the sound and power of a big engine. This is even better than her motorbike. "I want to drive it," she states.

"I never get to drive your car, so why should I let you drive mine?" He grins widely. "Payback's a bitch, Beckett."

She hrrmphs sulkily and settles back into the leather. If she can't drive it (that's _so_ not fair) then at least she can enjoy being driven. Castle's a surprisingly good driver, big hands delicately stroking over the wheel, gearshifts at the optimum moment, every curve taken expertly. He's in total control of the car. It makes her wonder what else he could be in control of.

* * *

Dinner is pleasant. Comfort food, quiet table by the window, no fuss. It's like being at Remy's, except that here everyone wants to exchange casual hellos with Castle. Beckett's content to sit and eat unnoticed while he makes nice with the rest of the clientele. By the time he's back, apologizing for leaving her alone, she's had as much as her stomach can take and has spent the rest of the time sipping her milkshake slowly and simply watching. As Castle finishes his meal she wheedles to the best of her ability in the hope that she'll get to drive the Ferrari back, but Castle simply wears a smug smirk and keeps on saying _no._

Out in the parking lot she thinks about just sitting down on the driver's seat and seeing if that would work - she really, really wants to drive this car - but Castle reads her mind (that's so annoying) and takes her arm to direct her to the other side.

"I like driving," he tells her, smiling innocently. "I'm pretty good at it." There's a whole world of innuendo behind the words. She's sure he's good at…driving. She's less sure that she's ready to accept what that means. Despite the loft. Despite the dreams. She watches his hands driving all the way home and thinks about it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Castle's back to observing Beckett. He's unusually unsure how to proceed. Normally he'd keep pushing till she threatened to do him physical violence and only then stop, but he's still shaken from the way things backfired last time and he really cannot bear to see Beckett in that empty place again. So let's start with a bit of innuendo, a bit of annoying her, a lot of pretending to himself that they're at the precinct (i.e. in public) and acting accordingly. No murders, though. That would be going too far. Some backing off. But he thinks that no matter how the evening goes he can steal kisses. (she's the prettiest cop in the playground, after all.)

He saw her watching how he drove. He's watching her now, as she carefully tastes her coffee at the other end of his big couch and gives him quick, sharp glances over the rim of the mug. Every so often, when she thinks he isn't watching, she looks at his mouth and bites her lip and looks away again.

He doesn't want to observe. He doesn't want to be patient. He wants to pull her out that corner and spread her over the couch and pin her down and kiss her till she makes those _noises_ that she made in his loft and then make her feel so good she'll never want to stop. He wants her wet and naked in his bed where he can touch her and taste her and make her moan and beg and scream. It would be so good. For both of them. Instead, he falls back on a tried and tested route to wind her up: flirting.

"See something you like, Beckett?"

She jumps and flushes. Hmm. That's a bit of an over-reaction to a phrase she's heard before, and tweaked his earlobe for. Maybe she's been thinking naughty thoughts (oh, he hopes so). He can safely push a little harder.

"You were admiring my car all the way home." She growls. It's sexy. He knows she really wants to drive his Ferrari (who wouldn't?) and telling her _no_ is eating away at her. He never told her _no_. Till now.

She's a speed freak, he knows. Well. There are more ways than one to peel the Beckett onion. "It's really fun to drive. When it's turned on it's incredibly responsive to my handling. It moves under me exactly as I tell it to, and it makes the sexiest noises. It only needs the lightest touch to react." She's gritting her teeth, but he can see the flush along her collarbones and he knows he's getting to her. She's fidgeting and biting her lip. "If I really make it go, it'll scream. Being in the driver's seat is my favorite place." She wriggles, presses her legs together. The skirt (that had been a _great_ idea, even if it was accidental because it was all the store had) flutters enticingly but unfortunately doesn't fall open. Game on again, Beckett.

* * *

He's talking about the car. Just the car. But his eyes are sparkling with mischief ,and something darker, hungrier, and he is really, really getting to her. She moves restlessly and remembers that she's wearing a wrap-over skirt which is not exactly going to conceal anything if she's not a bit more careful how she's sitting.

She puts her empty coffee cup down and nestles into the corner of the soft sofa. It's so very Castle, this place. Good taste but complete luxury, from the coffee to the kitchen to the soft furnishings to the – bed? She's only seen one bed. And it's Castle's. She can't sleep there. Well, she could, but she doesn't think that's a good idea. It's all too much, too soon. She needs to regroup, needs to pull herself together properly. Stop falling into him. Stop falling in love. It's not like she'll be his one and done, and she's not going to be another tick in the divorce statistics. But she wants him.

Surely there must be another bedroom somewhere? Of course there is, Alexis's room. And the size of this place (Castle's ridiculous taste for excess again) means there must be at least one guest room. Stupid to think otherwise, Kate. That's fine, she can sleep there, without having to deal with anything complicated tonight. Comforted by the application of deductive reasoning to reach the right conclusion she curls her feet up under her and relaxes.

"You wanna glass of wine, Beckett?" That sounds good. It'll help her sleep.

"Yes, please."

Castle rapidly produces a bottle of good red and two large glasses. Beckett finds herself fascinated by his fingers manipulating (oh, _bad_ word choice) the corkscrew. She bites her lip.

A glass of wine appears near her hand and Castle takes the opportunity to sit down a good deal nearer than before. He's crowding her. His blue eyes are less mischievous and a whole lot darker. He looks a little dangerous. She looks away and drinks her wine. The similarities to two nights ago are not lost on her. It's all too much. There's sudden tension in the room and she knows why. He's too big, too close.

"So," she says brightly, "where do I find sheets and pillows for the guest room?" Castle looks at her incredulously, plucks the wineglass out her hand and jerks her into him.

"I want you to sleep with me." It's not a question.

What? This isn't going as planned. But Beckett isn't the shell she was last night and she's not going down without a fight. He might have inveigled her into his room by trickery yesterday but it's not happening again.

"Don't be ridiculous, Castle. I can't sleep with you."

"Why not? You might like it," he says teasingly. She's back to being held against him and her chin is in his hand so she can't look away from his gaze. But below the surface teasing is something more possessive. More…permanent.

"It's…this…that…isn't a good idea." She's stammering. She's sure she had good reasons. Logical reasons. But they've flown out her head the moment she's in his arms. He's smiling at her and it's warm and somehow safe in his lap and he feels so _good_ and why is she arguing about this with him when yesterday and this morning she was distraught because she thought it would never happen? _Get a grip, Kate. Decide what you want. You're not some child. If you want it, you need to take it._

* * *

He's looking down at her mouth and she licks her lips nervously. His eyes go from angry to hot and he slams his mouth down on to hers, his tongue demanding entrance. And then he stops, pulls back. It's all been left up to her. Everything pauses, until Beckett decides. She runs a delicate hand up over his shirt, undoes the buttons and slips her fingers over his chest. It's gentle and electric and so absolutely hot and it's clearly encouragement.

His hand slides round to the back of her neck, pressing her into him while he pushes her back on the couch and slides over her. He's going to make her admit in words she wants him, just like she's admitting it with her body now. He doesn't care about going slowly any more, because every time he slows up there's some new bullshit reason that the universe puts in their way to stop them. No more stopping.

He nips at her ear and finds a spot on her neck which makes her emit a little noise that drives him wild. He's going to make her do that again and again, he promises himself. And then he's shoving up her t-shirt and sucking at her breasts and undoing the hooks of her bra so that he can turn her into a writhing, moaning mess who is never ever going to _argue_ about sleeping in his bed ever again.

* * *

Oh God. She's on her back on the couch and he's finding all the spots that send her brain into white-out and when he puts his mouth on her breasts she can't stay still because it feels so good and _more Castle please Castle_ and she might just have said that out loud. Her skirt's fallen open and he's running his hand over her hip and she's arching up into it and moaning and _oh god please don't stop_ he's stroking her right where she needs him. He's nipping on her shoulder and kissing back up to her mouth but his hand is sliding over the fabric of her panties and she's so ready for him and _please, please Castle _he slides a finger under the edge of her panties and into her and crooks it in some incredibly dirty way and rubs across her with the heel of his hand and she screams his name and comes.

When she recovers herself enough to focus Castle's looking at her with considerable satisfaction. "Well, Beckett, _that's_ why I think you're going to want to sleep in my bed from now on." Um. Maybe that's not such a hardship. But she's got game.

"Is that all you got, Castle?"

"Oh no, Beckett. We're only just beginning."

He picks her up without apparent effort and carries her through to the bedroom, dropping her on the bed and holding her wrists above her head with one large hand while he undoes her skirt button with the other. He strips her of the skirt, T-shirt and bra slowly and deliberately, holding her in place to caress her as he does, and leaves her lying before him in nothing but her thin cotton panties, panting and already frantic.

"Now, Beckett, let's find out what you really like." He leans into her, still holding her wrists, and kisses her hard and deep. She squirms and mewls, trying to get friction. "No, Beckett. It's give and take. You admit what it is you want, and I'll give you what you need." He's purring into her ear, deep, a little husky, and the sound of his voice is keeping her wet and desperate.

"I like it when you hold me down," she gasps out. He hums with satisfaction.

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Good girl, Beckett. What else do you like? What do you want?" He brings a hand up and strokes her breast till she gasps and writhes.

"Please, Castle. Touch me."

"You need to tell me what else you want. You don't get if you don't talk."

She can't admit what she wants yet. He presses her wrists into the mattress and runs his hand over her body, up her legs, stroking her inner thighs but never quite touching her where she's desperate for him . She tries everything to get his hand where she needs it, but he's always one step ahead, teasing her until she's a formless mass of need. She whimpers.

"Please. Stop teasing. Touch me. Please, Castle."

* * *

He knows he's teasing. He'd like nothing more than to use all his considerable prowess to bring her to screaming (she's _loud_) over and over and over again. But he's got this one chance to break down her barriers and he can't afford to fail.

"Tell me what you want, Kate." She's so wet and open beneath him.

"You," she breathes.

He hears it with the same joy he'd hear a bell chiming Christmas. He's done it. She's admitted it. She's his. He can barely believe it. He kisses her everywhere he can reach: her neck, the long stretch of her throat, the sharp-cut collarbone and finally her soft mouth; deep and possessive and hungry. He strips off his own shirt and pants to come back to her and finally, _finally _rove his hands before, behind, between, above, below. She's pulling him in and over her, and he peels off her panties slowly and runs his fingers back, up over her ankle, knee, hard muscle above, and finally over her wet center. She's begging, _please please I need you in me now please, _her nails scraping his back to try and direct him into the hot cradle between her legs. No, Kate. My way.

* * *

She's incapable of thought beyond _you yes now please._ She tugs at him to bring him where she wants him but he's immovable, so much stronger than she'd imagined. And then he moves his hands to hold her hips in place, leans right down and _licks_ and the world disappears.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Someone's stroking her hair, gathering her in against them. She can feel warm skin and hard muscle behind her. She stretches slowly, cat-like and completely relaxed, and flops back bonelessly. Castle runs a lazy caress over her arm and shoulder and brings her round to face him. He's smiling, eyes warm and slightly crinkled, looking down at her as if she's the birthday present he's always wanted.

"Mine," he rumbles possessively. "My Kate."

She's too contented to object to the claim inherent in the words. The lazy caress takes on a more demanding texture and soon she's moving under his wicked mouth and clever fingers and at last he slides slowly into her, filling her till she moans again. And then there's no thought required. Only touch and stroke and slide and _please Castle _and _yes Kate_ and _ohhh_.

* * *

She wakes to the smell of coffee. It's morning and when she flexes she's sore along a number of muscles she hasn't used for some time. She investigates the shower:it's huge and the water pressure is sufficient to massage all the aches away, and finally wraps herself back in Alexis's robe to follow the aroma to the kitchen.

Castle's sitting at the table with a large cafetiere in front of him, his hands circling one steaming mug. There's another empty one waiting enticingly next to the pot. It's good coffee, slipping down her throat and sizzling through her brain. She's halfway down the second cup before she looks up.

"You're staring at me, Castle. It's creepy."

He smirks and slides a slow, speculative glance over her. It tingles down her nerves. "I think I did a lot more than stare at you last night, Kate. You didn't seem to be complaining."

She blushes. She hadn't complained at all. She's embarrassed, so she deflects. She can't get too far into this. Remember, Kate, millionaire playboy writers don't want Homicide cops. At least, since clearly this one currently does want one very specific Homicide cop, not for long. She's not going to set herself up for heartbreak. More heartbreak than is already in her future.

"I need to get back to the precinct. Montgomery only gave me two days' sick leave and that runs out today. I've got to be there tomorrow."

"Um. About that."

She glares at Castle suspiciously. That has the definite sound of something she isn't going to like. "Spill it, Castle."

"Well. Er. I might have called Captain Montgomery yesterday and told him you actually needed a week's sick leave. And he might have given it. So you don't need to be back at the Twelfth for another few days." He smiles in a way that tells her exactly what he wants to do with her for those days. She's not interested. She's stuck on what he's just said.

"You called Montgomery? You _told_ him I needed _sick_ leave? And he _gave it_?" She's practically squawking with indignation. "Where the hell do you get off giving orders like that? You're not a cop. I don't need a week's leave. I have a case to solve. I need my phone and some clothes and to get back to the city."

"You can only get back to the city if I take you. And I won't. And besides," he smirks, knowing he's won, "Montgomery will suspend you if you show up before Tuesday."

She's going to kill him. And then she's going to drive that Ferrari as fast as it will go (_ooh_) back to the precinct and she's going to kill Montgomery. Damn matchmaking interfering…senior Captain. Oh. She's not allowed to shoot a superior officer. Well, shooting Castle will do to start with. "Where's my gun? Where's my phone? Where's my purse?"

"Probably with Ryan and Esposito." Interesting order of importance there, Beckett. He's never previously met a woman who worried about her gun before she worried about her purse. It's...hot.

"Ryan and Esposito. You got Ryan and Esposito – _my team_ – to play along with your game? So one of them gave you a_ set of handcuffs for you to use on me_? And you got _my Captain_ to go along with this?" She's shouting now. He's never seen her in such a thoroughpaced rage. "I don't believe it. You high-handed _asshole_!" She's going to shoot every single one of them and then dance on the corpses. The jail term will be worth it. When she gets back to the precinct they will wish they had never been born. She storms out the back door on to the decking and slams it behind her, leaving a trail of incoherent rage behind her.

Castle watches her go and chuckles. That could have gone a lot worse. Temper he can deal with. He's had plenty practice. He can leave Beckett to fulminate for now, seeing as she's a safe enough distance away that maiming is out. She can't shoot him without a gun, so she can't kill him. Probably. Certainly not from the other end of the deck. But there aren't likely to be any morning kisses in the immediate future, either.

He clears the coffee away, humming happily. It's always good to have Beckett riled up. It stops her thinking about things he'd prefer she didn't yet. He hasn't missed that although she's stormed off swearing at him, she hasn't said that the previous night was a mistake. She also hasn't (yet) argued with his blatantly possessive statements. All in all, he thinks he's probably ahead.

* * *

When Beckett (she's definitely back to Beckett now, rather than _Kate_) stomps back in it's clear he's not forgiven.

"Give me your phone, Castle." _Oh Beckett, that's not the way to get what you want. But it's the way that I'll get what I want._

"No. You forgot the magic word," he singsongs.

"Stop being childish. I need the phone. I need to call in. I have a case."

"No." He holds it away from her above his head. When she stretches up for it he moves it out the way until she's been tricked into getting close enough that he catches her in and kisses her. She's still trying to reach the phone, but when he nips her neck and rolls her against his hips she arches in and opens for him. He walks her backwards to the wall and presses in between her legs, keeping hot weight on her till she curves one long leg around his waist and he can stroke under the robe and right up to her hipbone. She moans and bites into his shoulder. He lifts her up and steers them back to the bedroom and pretty soon he's fairly sure that she isn't thinking about anything but what he's doing with his mouth and his hands and then he rises over her and it's absolutely definite that the only thing she's aware of as he thrusts is him.

* * *

He's hoping for a lazy post-coital snuggle and maybe a second round, but Beckett doesn't seem inclined to cuddle. He's a bit offended by that: a few minutes ago she was helplessly moaning his name and now she's already back to wanting the damn phone. He hangs on to her a bit more tightly to stop her exiting the bed and finding it.

"So, Kate" – it's definitely _Kate_ when she's naked in his bed – "why are you so keen to get back to the precinct? Aren't you enjoying this?" He slicks a hand over her hip and elicits a wriggle.

"It's an interesting interlude, Castle, but I have a job to do and I need to get back to it." Oh no. This is not the right answer. "It's what I do. It's who I am."

"Sure it is, but is it everything you are?" An interesting _interlude_? That sounds like she's trying to build her walls again. He doesn't like that. That's not what he brought her here for. He wants resolution.

She isn't looking at him. "I…don't know anymore. It always has been."

This got heavier way too fast, too early, but there's nowhere for Castle to go but forward. "Couldn't there be more?" Hear what I'm saying, Kate. Listen to the subtext.

She lies silent, thinking. He traces small nervous patterns on the smooth skin of her stomach, waiting.

"Maybe."

It'll do for now. At least it's not _no_. But this conversation isn't over. He's got four more days to convince her that for him it's not an _interlude_. He pulls her roughly round and kisses her hard enough that she gasps in surprise. She slides her hands into his hair and he brings her into him and attempts to prove to her with every touch and stroke of his body that this, them, is going to be more than some brief affair.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

They're short of some of the basic necessities, Castle remembers, like food, and drink, and in Kate's case at least, clothes. And while he feels the latter is possibly unnecessary, she almost certainly isn't of the same mind. Time to go shopping. There's some nice boutiques and – he grins – some _very_ upscale lingerie stores. And – oh, even _better_ – Kate hasn't got a purse or wallet so he'll get to buy it. Which means (he hopes) he'll get to choose. Or at least get to express a view.

He bounces round to find Beckett, who's curled up in a corner of the couch wearing yesterday's clothes and reading something she must have plucked off the bookshelves. He's irrationally pleased to spot that it's one of his books.

"Beckett, we need to go shopping," he enthuses. "Come on! We need food, and you probably want clothes. Though it's okay if you don't. Want clothes, that is. I won't mind." He wiggles a salacious eyebrow and gets a full-scale Beckett glare in return.

The town is full of people. Castle applies some charm to the boutique assistants over Beckett's protests and pretty soon she's carrying a dress (that had taken some very fast talking) and some shirts and pants. Admittedly, he's had to concede that she will repay him when she recovers her purse. That had come with a considerable veneer of _from Ryan and Esposito's cold dead hands because I will have shot them for their part in this._ He'd wanted to give her the clothes. He wants to give her - well, anything tangible really, because she's never accepted anything from him.

Trouble really starts when he tries to steer her into the lingerie store.

"You are not buying me underwear."

"But you don't have any," he starts. "Of course, if you're not going to wear…"

"Shut up, Castle. You are not buying me underwear from there or any place else. Lend me some money - since you're the reason I don't have my wallet - and I'll get my own. Somewhere else. Without your input." There's a reasonable level of temper beginning to show under the level tone.

"You're no fun. Why not buy here, anyway? You had some _very_ nice underwear on when you came to the loft. All lacy and suggestive. Is that what you wear under those button-downs? I wish I'd known."

He stops. There's a very familiar look on Beckett's face which promises violence, maiming and possibly sudden and painful death. And while he knows that he can (and will) stop her, he's also fairly sure that if he catches her arms to her sides they will very shortly after that be hitting the gossip columns in instants because they will be making out in public in an entirely inappropriate way, and he's not ready to deal with Beckett's reaction to being on page six.

He tries bribery. "If you let me buy you underwear I'll let you drive the Ferrari." She's sorely tempted. But this is about principles. She may be happy (_oh_ yes) to let him dominate in bed but she is absolutely not going to let him get away with it in other areas. Even if some of the items in the window are exactly what she'd buy herself. (and let him remove oh-so-slowly later on)

"No." He looks utterly astonished. Clearly he thought that would be a knockout offer. No way_. _She'll get to drive that car one way or another without ceding on this. She's not some airhead trophy girlfriend that he can buy unthinking casual just-another-celebutante-who's-on-his-arm-this- week gifts. She's got a professional, independent life of her own. She doesn't need his.

He tries reason. "Beckett. You have no purse. You need these. I'm happy to get them." Oh yes, he surely is. "And I can make an extremely accurate guess at your size," he smirks, "so whether you come in or not isn't going to make a difference."

"I am not going into a lingerie store with you. Do what you please." She turns round and stalks off, clearly irritated. He pushes open the door of the store and goes in. He doesn't see the camera flash behind him.

He happily selects a variety of sexy-but-tasteful pieces that correspond to what Beckett was wearing the other day. He really likes the idea that she'll be wearing underwear that he's bought her. He pays and then sets about getting some food. Nothing fancy, bread and deli stuff that won't take too much effort. Effort is for…other things. When they get home. Mmmm. He likes that thought. Taking Beckett home.

Beckett has disappeared, unsurprisingly. He wanders through the town, not hurrying, giving her some space.

He finally tracks Beckett down as she's walking down the main street. Even off-duty, she walks like a cop, quick steps and penetrating glances, aware of every movement around her. He catches up and slings a casual arm around her. It's another minor victory when she doesn't immediately shake it off.

"Time to go home, Beckett." She rolls her eyes.

"Your home. My home is in New York City and _somebody_ is preventing me from going back there." But she doesn't sound as irritated as the words suggest. And she still hasn't shrugged his arm away. He pulls her just a little closer in and enjoys the unaccustomed ability to touch without being hurt. He's forgetting that even here he's a page six attraction.

There's another argument about who drives back. Castle solves it by the simple method of sitting in the driver's seat and refusing to move. Beckett argues until it's clear that there is no hope of changing his mind or physically forcing him to move. (if she'd only had her gun he would have moved) She stares crossly out the window all the way back and exits the car rapidly as soon as it stops.

"I need clean clothes." A slow and distinctly wicked smile appears on Castle's face.

"Better go and change, then. But I do want to know how you're going to be able to put on clean underwear when you didn't want me to buy you any. Unless your principles are outweighed by practicality you'll -"

"Shut up. This conversation is _done_." She supposes she'll need to wear the damn underwear. There isn't any other option. Alexis's is really too small. None is certainly not an option. There's principle and then there's discomfort.

"So do you want what I got or not?" She glares at him furiously. "I'm easy either way." She just bets he is. By the time he's in the door he's heard the lock slide shut on the bathroom door. There's a disappointment.

By the time Beckett reappears, in pants and shirt, hair up, all very buttoned-up and very Detective Beckett and surrounded by a familiar atmosphere of barely suppressed annoyance, dinner's out. He takes a slow, up-and-down perusal. She's definitely wearing a bra. Ergo, she's wearing the underwear he bought. He's surprised how exciting that thought is. And whilst it would have been nice to see her in a dress, which would have so many accessible possibilities, pants and button-downs offer the infinite pleasure of slow, seductive unwrapping, building exquisite tension at each stage... He parks that thought for later.

Halfway down the wine, Beckett's feeling rather more mellow. She's still not very happy about having to wear the underwear, but at least it's fairly close to something she might have chosen for herself and not, as she had feared, something that Dita Von Teese might have worn on stage. And however much he argues, she'll be paying for it. She's also perfectly well aware that Castle knows she's wearing it. She didn't miss the slow once-over. Still. She's not going to give him the satisfaction of her saying anything positive about it. Let him stew. She allows the silence to stretch on, sips her wine. Unlike some people, she doesn't see the need to talk constantly.

"Why don't you come over here, Beckett?" Castle's voice is smooth. She pretends to consider. He can work for it. If he wants her, _he_ can come and get her.

"I don't think so. I'm quite happy here." Castle smiles, slowly. He thinks he knows what she's doing. Trying to play it cool.

"I guess I'll just have to come to you, then." Win-win. He eases along towards her, tugs her legs up over his lap and puts his arm around her shoulders. There's a slight tensing of her muscles. He plays with a wisp of hair that's falling down behind her ear, strokes gently down the side of her neck. His other hand splays out above her knee. An almost imperceptible hitch in her breathing is the only clue that she's in any way affected. _Oh Kate. _ His fingers wander down across her collar and circle round the hollow of her throat. She moves very slightly under the delicate pressure, opening the arc of her neck invitingly. Not yet. Taking things slowly can be so much more satisfying.

He bends in a fraction to whisper in her ear. "You're a little formal, Beckett. Shall I help you relax?" When she murmurs invitingly he opens her top button, runs a line from there back up to her neck, slides his other hand upward. There's a small but definite wriggle.

He traces back down her neck, opens another button, watches her eyes go hazy when he runs fingers teasingly along her skin just beneath the fabric in the vee he's made.

She's mesmerised by the slow movements, the gentle strokes that aren't touching anywhere significant but somehow are making it hard not to squirm and move closer. She wants more. She slips forward, fully into his lap, wriggles against the thick weight between his legs. Another slow stroke downward, another button open, the lace of her bra on view as he smooths the cotton shirt wider open and follows his fingers with wet kisses till she gasps. Another button, and another. He's holding her hips still, opens the final button and pulls the shirt halfway down her arms. She's left trapped, and it's so good, so exactly what she needs. He's kissing back up her body and when he finally takes her mouth she's moaning into him.

"You like it slow, Beckett? Like it to be a little restrained?" She writhes. He balances her against the couch so that both his hands are free to roam, palming her breasts through the bra, nipping along her collarbone, soothing the sting with soft kisses and wet tongue. "Do you like it like this?" She moans louder. "Need to use your words. You have to tell me what you want."

"More. Kiss me."He kisses her deeply but it's not enough. "_Castle_. Taste me."

He licks her neck round to her ear and the spot he's found that makes her squirm and whimper. "Like that? Or" - he drops back to her breasts - "here?" His hand skims the front of her pants. "Or there?" She rocks against his hand and she is _so close_ as he undoes the button, unzips, slips fingers under lace to find her wet and open for him. When he parts her and pushes first one, then another long finger into her she's pleading for _more, harder, please Castle_. His voice is pure seduction as he murmurs "I thought you wanted me to taste you?" She makes an incoherent noise that might have been _yes _if only she could form words and it's all he needs.

He's pulling off the shirt and bra, pushing her flat and stripping off her pants and panties and sliding off the couch to kneel between her legs and the look in his eyes is _wild_ as he stares at her and she may not be in control here but suddenly neither is he and _Castle taste me_ he spreads her wide and bends to taste her _oh god don't stop don't stop _but he's groaning as he licks and sucks and nips and holds her right on the edge _please make me come_ and finally he slips his fingers back into her and sucks _harder_ and she falls apart.

When she opens her eyes again he's as naked as she. He picks her up and she wraps her legs round his waist, her arms round his neck, slides down against him till he's panting and close to undone. But he carries her to the bedroom, falls over her and checks for just an instant before thrusting into her, holding her down in the way he already knows she likes best, kissing her roughly and rubbing over her and _you first Kate _as he hears her begging him _more Castle now please now_ and when she comes he does too.

The last thing he can manage is to drag a coverlet over them and pull her into him to sleep.

_This_ is how their story was supposed to go.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Esposito's looking at the murder board glumly when Ryan comes in holding a newspaper, practically jumping with excitement.

"Hey, Esposito, look at this!"

Esposito looks at the photo on page six and whistles. "Uh-oh." It's Castle, going into a lingerie store. The article underneath reads "Millionaire mystery writer and man-about-town, Richard Castle, was spotted yesterday in a lingerie store in East Hampton, buying for an as-yet-unidentified brunette. Looks like everyone's favorite bachelor is off the market again. Rick's been single for a few weeks since he broke up with the publisher of the Nikki Heat series, inspired by Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD's Twelfth Precinct. It hasn't taken him long to find a new love interest. What does this mean for the Nikki Heat books - will Detective Beckett still be Rick's muse? Will this new interest appreciate the "research" for Nikki Heat?" There's a second, smaller, picture, taken from behind, of Castle with his arm curled around a figure that the two detectives instantly identify as Beckett.

"Looks like he got her."

"Yeah, but how long will that last when Beckett discovers she's in the paper? She's not exactly keen on publicity."

* * *

Beckett's getting dressed and grumbling audibly about still not getting to drive the Ferrari when Castle's phone beeps. It's a text message from Ryan.

_Hey Castle. Better keep the papers away from Beckett. You're on page six. Can't tell it's Beckett 'less you know her, but you're out there._

Oh fuck.

It's too soon. He hasn't convinced her yet. Two choices, hide it and hope she doesn't find out, or honesty and hope she doesn't walk out. He sits down heavily and considers which one is more likely to be repairable. If he doesn't tell her, and then she finds out about the article and interrogates him, then he'll have destroyed all the hard-won trust he's built up and she will certainly leave. And he'll deserve it for lying. If he does, it's perfectly likely that she'll put her barriers all the way up and still leave. He doesn't like either option, but there aren't any others. Truth or lies, Rick. He knows which way he has to go. He just has to get the courage to do it.

Before he's come to the point, his phone rings. It's Paula. She's not happy.

"What the hell is this, Rick? I've got every gossip hack in New York on my back wanting to know what you're doing and who she is. How am I supposed to manage your PR if you don't take at least a bit of care about where you're seen and what you're doing? Is this one so good that you've left your mind in your dick? I suppose your detective's finally told you where to get off and this is you consoling yourself. Couldn't you at least warn me, Rick, so I can spin the story?"

"Paula," he starts, and pauses. "Look, I'll have to call you back."

She's still sputtering "Rick, don't you put the phone.." as he rings off.

Looks like the timing's been set for him. It'll have to be right now.

* * *

Beckett's got her feet tucked up in her corner of the couch, reading, wearing the dress and looking delectable. He takes a moment just to look, spotting a fragment of lace. He wants to unwrap her, have what might be one last chance to love her slowly before he has to tell her that the gossip columns are on the case and watch her back away.

He attempts to assemble words which might, if he's really lucky, be enough to draw the sting of truth: that he really wasn't thinking through the haze of _Kate's mine_ and so he's let the world know about them before there's even really a _them_ for the world to know about.

He sits down next to her, close enough to put an arm round her shoulders, and for a wonder she unconsciously leans into him. He wants so badly just to kiss her and forget that this is happening, that the future he was hoping for might be slipping away from him. "Kate," he blurts. She looks up, startled by his tone and the use of her first name.

"Mmm?"

"Kate, we need to talk." She looks stricken, and suddenly he remembers that – only two days ago – she was crying on the decking, expecting him to ditch her. "No. No. I don't mean like that." This is all coming out wrong already. "I don't want you to go." There's a miniscule relaxation of her shoulders and he hugs her closer. "Don't kill me. Promise you won't kill me till I've finished talking."

She nods, unconvincingly. He takes a deep breath, because if he stops now he'll never be able to do this, and plunges on.

"I just got a call from Paula. Someone took a shot of me yesterday in East Hampton and a shot of both of us and the photos are on page six, but you can't tell it's you with me because it's from behind." He runs out of words and breath alike. She's absolutely motionless in the crook of his arm. He can't see her face because her hair's fallen across it.

"Oh," she says finally, tonelessly. He wants to say _please don't hate me_ and _please don't leave_ and maybe even_ it doesn't matter because I'm going to marry you and take care of you and love you for the rest of my life_ but self-preservation intervenes and he manages to stay silent. She's still motionless.

"So. Well. Are we going to play this whole affair out on page six? Is that how this goes, Castle? Paparazzi and gossip columnists just waiting for any snippet they can get? You're the one in the public eye. Tell me how I keep my life private. Tell me how I _do my job_."

"I…I don't know. I only know that I'm not letting you go just because some asshole took a photo and sent it to the papers. I'm not giving this up. You. Us." He's squeezing tighter and tighter and both arms are round her now. "I can't let you run away from us again. I won't. You're _mine_."

The raw possession in his voice hits home. It's abruptly clear to Beckett that she's fundamentally misunderstood what's going on here. Castle, rich playboy, isn't playing any more. He's really, really serious. Some time when she wasn't looking, the game changed. Oh. _Oh_.

"Castle," she hesitates. She isn't sure she's ready for the answers she's about to extract. But suddenly she needs to know. "Castle." It's her firmest interrogation tone. "Why did you do all this? Invite me to the loft. Bring me here." _Take me to bed_. "What is this?"

"I couldn't wait any more. You _knew_ there was more going on between us than just me following you around for Nikki Heat but you wouldn't admit it and then I kissed you in that alley and you kissed me back but you just _wouldn't talk about it_" - his voice is rising – "and the only thing I could think of to do was get you to the loft to show you there was more to it but then you _ran away_" – he's very nearly shouting and his grip is so tight it's painful – "and…" – his tone drops to a guilty mumble – "…and I might have over-reacted a bit - a lot - and I'm really, really sorry but I thought you'd gone and I just couldn't stand it so I had to get you back and make you see." He runs down.

Oh. That's...unexpected.

"See what, Castle?" She needs to hear the next sentence.

"See how much I love you."

_Oh._

She turns her face up and pulls his head down and kisses him, and then it's a confused mess of hands and mouths and his shirt is off and her dress is round her waist and neither of them has any control of this at all and as he pushes into her he's pleading _Kate, Kate _and she's pulling him into her and begging him not to stop and then it all goes white.

* * *

Eventually, much later, they're curled together on the couch, sated.

"Now what?"

"Mmm," he hums. "I think we should stay here till Tuesday and stay in bed all that time." Not a bad thought, but not quite what she means.

"No, I mean after that."

He hasn't thought that far. Inchoate ideas about moving her into the loft or telling Paula to tell all known and unknown gossip columnists that he's off the market for good or just marrying her tomorrow swirl about his head. And honestly, as long as she's going to be with him he doesn't care about any of it.

"Long-term? Long-term I want to marry you. Short-term – come on, and kiss me, Kate."

**Finis.**

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed.**


End file.
